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Last Signa^l 

BY 

Dora Russell 


1892. Publlsbe«l f^o^tbly. Ai?nua.I 5ubscrlptionf ^>5.00. 
Ebtcre<l tb« Wew YorH Po5t Office ats Second CIjvss A\&ttcr. 





THE LAST SIGNAL 


. « 



THE LAST SIGNAL 



DORA RUSSELL 

I* 

AUTHOR OF “FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW,” “THE OTHER 
BOND,” “A STRANGE MESSAGE,” ETC. 







NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

1 19 Potter Building 








\/ 

•V 




V 


Copyright, 1892, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER page 

I. — A Strange Recognition, .... 7 

II. — The Soldier’s Message, . . . .18 

III. — Dr. Reed, 29 

IV. — Fixing the Day, 40 

V.— Joan, 53 

VI. — Miriam’s Request 61 

VII. — Dare, 74 

VIII. — Miriam’s Letter, 84 

IX. — Once More, 98 

X. — A Loan, iii 

XL — Two Hundred Pounds, 122 

XII. — In Storm and Darkness, .... 130 

XIII. — No Use, 144 

XIV. — Miriam’s Request, ...... 157 

XV. — The Sisters, 170 

XVI. — The First Doubt, 177 

XVII. — A Haunting Dread, 192 

XVHI. — A Fevered Brain, 200 

XIX. — True to Joan, 216 

XX. — The Dowager’s Duty, ..... 226 

XXL — Playing with Fire, 240 

XXH. — The Last Signal, 249 

XXHI. — Bitter Words, 264 

XXIV. — Summoned, 273 

XXV. — A Woman’s Hair, 289 

XXVL— The Truth, 298 



THE LAST SIGNAL. 


CHAPTER I. 

A STRANGE RECOGNITION. 

A GRAY sky and a gray-green sea, for the great 
waters were reflecting the sombre coloring of the 
clouds. Some of their gloom seemed also to have 
fallen on the face of a young girl standing on the 
shore, whose lover was pleading to her to fix their 
wedding-day. 

“O Sir James! that is far too soon,” she said, 
as the young man paused. 

“ How can you say so, Miriam?” he answered. 
“We have been engaged a month already now, 
and surely another month added to that is long 
enough to wait. ” 

“Most of people are engaged six months,” re- 
plied the girl, with downcast eyes; “some people 
six years.” 

“Six years! What nonsense! Why, I shall 
be an old man in six years.” 

“ And I shall be getting on to be an old woman,” 
said Miriam, smiling. 

“ Now, don’t tease so; there’s a darling. With- 
7 


8 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


out joking, Miriam, do let us fix the time! Mrs. 
Clyde quite agrees with me that there’s no good 
in waiting any longer.” 

“ Mother is always in such a hurry about things. ” 

“ But it’s not being in a hurry to be engaged 
two months. Besides, I want to take you abroad 
before the winter comes in earnest, and it’s really 
quite chilly to-day.” 

“Yes, it is,” and the girl gave a little shiver 
and looked up at the gloomy clouds. 

She was tall, slim, and dark-eyed, with a mo- 
bile, expressive face, and a white, swan-like 
throat. People as a rule called Miriam Clyde 
handsome, but she scarcely looked handsome as 
she stood there by her lover, beneath the darksome 
sky — embarra^ed and unwilling to accede to his 
request. She was the daughter of Colonel Clyde, 
of the Artillery, who at this time commanded the 
garrison of Newbrough-on-the-Sea, and she was a 
girl who was always greatly admired. There was 
a charm about her, men said, which many women, 
actually more beautiful, did not possess; a charm 
in her manner, her grace, and in her bright and 
winning tongue. She had so charmed the tall 
young Scotchman, Sir James MacKennon, who 
was now standing at her side, that after a very 
short acquaintance he had offered himself and all 
his worldly possessions for her acceptance. 

He was a baronet, well off, of ancient family, and 
fairly good-looking. Both Colonel and Mrs. Clyde 
were delighted when he proposed to their daugh- 
ter, and never doubted that Miriam would be de- 


A STRANGE RECOGNITION. 


9 


lighted also. At all events, she accepted him, 
after a little delay, which Mrs. Clyde — a clever 
woman — accounted for by believing that her 
daughter made this hesitation from the innate 
coquetry of her heart. There were various young 
ladies who were by no means indifferent to the 
attentions of the wealthy young Scotchman, and 
Mrs. Clyde felt inwardly assured that Miriam 
only wished to appear more indifferent than she 
actually was. Mrs. Clyde was anxious, too, that 
Miriam should marry well and early, for she knew 
something, though not all, of a sad and secret 
tragedy which had already darkened her young 
daughter’s life. 

“You have done charmingly for yourself,” she 
said to Miriam, with a proud and happy smile, 
when Sir James MacKennon came down one after- 
noon to Newbrough-on-the-Sea, asked to have a 
private interview with Colonel Clyde, and in- 
formed him he had the great happiness to be his 
daughter’s accepted suitor. 

Every one, indeed, smiled on this engagement 
except the young ladies who had smiled on Sir 
James. Some of these wondered what he saw in 
Miss Clyde, but others were more good-natured. 

“ She’s a handsome, clever girl, in a good posi- 
tion, that’s what he sees in her; and then her 
mother is no doubt an advantage to Miriam, ’’said 
one of these. 

To be the daughter of Mrs. Clyde was certainly 
an advantage to any girl. This lady, who was re- 
markably handsome, tall, stout, and personable. 


lO 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


was not only an acute woman of the world, a bril- 
liant conversationalist, but also a writer of culture 
and talent. She had two daughters, one already 
the wife of a man high up in the Service, and 
Miriam. Therefore, when Miriam became en- 
gaged to Sir James MacKennon, Mrs. Clyde re- 
flected with satisfaction that both her children had 
done well. Her eldest daughter was married to a 
General, and her youngest about to be married to 
a Baronet ; and so Mrs. Clyde felt that her mater- 
nal duties were almost over. She in truth thought 
of many other things besides her children, and did 
not live only in their lives. She was sympathetic, 
but not absolutely tender to them, and she was 
sympathetic in manner at least to almost every 
one. 

So she made Sir James MacKennon very wel- 
come at the Commandant’s House at Newbrough- 
on-sea, and charmed him by her genial words. 
Sir James, who was in a Cavalry Regiment, was 
stationed at Halstone, a town about ten miles dis- 
tant from Newbrough-on-Sea. It was at a ball at 
Halstone that he had first seen Miriam Clyde, and 
laid his warm, honest young heart at her feet. 

His wish to make her his wife grew stronger 
each day. They had been engaged a month, when 
we find him pleading to her to fix their wedding- 
day, but with a restless sigh Miriam turned away 
her head, and looked pensively on the wild waters 
of the northern sea. 

“ I shall be forced to go, Miriam, in a quarter 
of an hour,” continued Sir James, looking at his 


A STRANGE RECOGNITION. 


1 1 

watch. “There’s a big- ‘at home’ at the Colonel’s 
this afternoon, and I shall be obliged to go, as he 
made me promise; so don’t send me away without 
a word to cheer me.” 

“ How many do you want?” answered Miriam, 
now raising her dark eyes to his face with a 
smile. 

“You know the one I want,” he answered ar- 
dently ; “ the one little word — to name the happy 
day?” 

Miriam Clyde shook her head coyly. 

“Not to-day,” she said; “and if you are really 
going to Colonel Herbert’s this afternoon, I do 
not think you have any time to spare.” 

The expression of Sir James’s face changed. 

“ You are always putting me off,” he said. 

“ But how can we fix such a serious thing in a 
hurry?” 

“ If it wasn’t that I had promised the Chief, I 
would not go at all,” answered Sir James, a little 
impatiently. 

“And disappoint the Miss Herberts?” smiled 
Miriam. 

“ You know very well I don’t care about dis- 
appointing the Miss Herberts. There’s only one 
girl I never would disappoint, though she’s al- 
ways disappointing me. ” 

Miriam Clyde gave a little laugh, and looked 
half shyly, half kindly at Sir James’s freckled 
face. He was not good-looking, yet he was de- 
cidedly not plain. He was tall and stalwart, had 
a fine figure, in fact; and his features, though 


12 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


somewhat irregular, were not unpleasing, and his 
expression kindly and sensible. 

“Well, I suppose I must be off,” he said un- 
willingly, taking Miriam’s hand in his, and look- 
ing very tenderly in her face. “ Before I go, Mir- 
iam, may I have one kiss?” 

“No, certainly not!” answered Miriam quickly. 
“ Don’t you see the firing party there?” and she 
pointed toward the long stretch of yellow sand 
beyond where they were standing, on which a 
company of red-coated soldiers were firing at a 
target. 

“ I forgot the firing party,” said Sir James. 

“But they, I dare say, have not forgotten you,” 
answered Miriam, smiling. “ It’s Captain Es- 
court’s company. They passed me as I was com- 
ing down to the sands.” 

“ What kind of fellow is Escourt?” 

“ By no means brilliant, but rather good-look- 
ing.” 

“ Then are you going home now, or going to 
stay on the sands?” inquired Sir James. 

“ I shall stay out a little longer. ” 

“ Good-by, then, Miriam — good-by, dear Mir- 
iam.” He pressed her hand as he spoke, and 
then unwillingly left her. Miriam Clyde gave a 
little restless sigh when she found herself alone. 

“ Poor fellow!” she was thinking, and again she 
turned her dark eyes in dreamy fashion to the sea. 
She felt sorry for him — sorry for his wasted love, 
and her inability to return it. Yet she liked 
him, and understood his character well enough to 


A STRANGE RECOGNITION. 


13 


know that he deserved a better fate from her 
hands. “We can’t help these things,’’ she 
thought, with another sigh. Then §he began 
walking slowly, with bent head, along the sands 
in the direction of the firing party, who were, 
however, quite half a mile distant from her. 

She kept watching the firing vaguely. Sud- 
denly she saw the soldier who was standing near 
the target, marking, fall. Then several soldiers 
from the firing party ran toward the prostrate 
man. An accident had evidently occurred, and 
Miriam now also ran forward, and presently met a 
soldier running in the direction of the village, 
where the barracks were situated. 

“What has happened?’’ asked Miriam, as the 
man passed her. 

“ One of the men has been shot at the target, 
miss,’’ answered the soldier, saluting the com- 
mandant’s daughter; “and I’m going for the 
doctor.’’ 

“Make haste, then,” said Miriam, and she also 
made haste and presently ran up breathless to 
the group of soldiers who were standing round the 
man lying in the sand. 

Captain Escourt, a slender, good-looking young 
man, with a weak face, stepped forward from the 
group when he saw Miss Clyde approaching. 

“There’s been an accident, I am sorry to say. 
Miss- Clyde,” he said, addressing Miriam; “per- 
haps you had better not come any nearer, for the 
poor fellow is bleeding terribly.” 

“ But are you not trying to stop the bleeding?” 


14 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


asked Miriam excitedly. “ Is no one trying to 
stop it?” 

“ I have sent for the doctor,-” answered Captain 
Escourt. 

“ But he may bleed to death before the doctor 
comes,” said Miriam. “I know something about 
these things,” and she pushed her way through 
the group of soldiers and knelt down by the one 
who was lying wounded on the sand. 

“Break my sunshade stick in two pieces,” she 
said hastily to one of the soldiers. From her steel 
chatelaine she unfastened a pair of scissors, and 
proceeded at once to cut the wounded soldier’s 
trouser up to the part from which the blood was 
pouring. He had been shot above the knee. As 
soon as she had bared the place, Miriam drew out 
her handkerchief, and bound it tightly round the 
man’s leg, above the wound, and then asked for 
one half of the stick of her sunshade, which the 
soldier had already broken. 

The man handed her the stick, which she put 
between the handkerchief and the limb, and then 
twisted it round and round, thus tightening the 
bandage until the blood ceased to flow. 

“Now, hold it firmly as it is,” she said to the 
soldier who had broken the sunshade stick ; “ and 
some one give me another handkerchief.” 

Captain Escourt upon this produced a handker- 
chief, which Miriam soon bound round the man’s 
leg below the wound, and then with the other 
half of the stick she so effectively tightened the 
bandage that the bleeding entirely stopped. 


A STRANGE RECOGNITION. 


15 


Has any one a flask?” she now asked, glancing 
round. “ He will be all the better for a little 
brandy if he can get it?” 

Again Captain Escourt came to her assistance, 
and held toward her a silver flask. With this in 
her hand, Miriam rose from her knees, after di- 
recting another soldier to hold the second stick 
in the same manner that the first soldier was do- 
ing. As she opened the flask she looked into the 
wounded man’s face, whose eyes were fixed on 
her own with a strange, wild look of recognition 
and fear. 

No sooner had Miriam glanced at that pallid 
countenance than she, too, grew deadly pale, and 
staggered back, while a faint cry escaped her 
whitening lips. 

“ Miss Clyde ! you are not well ; this has been 
too much for you,” said Captain Escourt, taking 
hold of her arm as if to support her; and Miriam, 
who a moment before had been so brave, so quick, 
clung to him, trembling in every limb. 

“ Lean on me; let me lead you away from this,” 
went on Escourt. “ Do not look at the poor fel- 
low; he’s all right now.” 

But with a wild stare in her eyes — a stare some- 
thing like a reflection of the wounded man’s — 
Miriam still looked on the white face lying on the 
sand, still clung trembling to Captain Escourt’s 
arm. 

“Here is the doctor. Thank God!” exclaimed 
Escourt, a few moments later, for he really did 
not know what to do. The surgeon attached to the 


i6 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


regiment was now to be seen approaching, accom- 
panied by the soldier who had been sent for him. 

He was a tall, fair, rather good-looking young 
Scotchman, this doctor, and as he drew near he 
first thought that something must have happened 
to Miss Clyde, she looked so deadly pale. 

“ What is the matter, Miss Clyde?” he said, going 
up to her and taking one of her trembling hands. 

“Nothing,” faltered Miriam, with her clammy 
lips. “Look to him,” and she pointed to the 
wounded soldier. 

‘‘Miss Clyde has done far too much, Reed,” 
said Captain Escourt ; “ she has bound up the poor 
fellow’s leg, and it has been too much for her.” 

“ She has probably saved his life,” muttered the 
young doctor. “ Come, Miss Clyde, I see Captain 
Escourt has a flask here; let me pour you out a 
sip, and that will probably put you all right.” 

The doctor poured out some of the brandy. 
Miriam swallowed a little, and then again pointed 
to the wounded man. 

“Give him some,” she said, almost in a whis- 
per, and the doctor knelt down on the sand to com- 
pljr with her request. 

“You have saved his life by your promptitude 
and courage,” he said, turning round presently to 
speak to Miriam Clyde, after he had examined 
the wound. “ One of the main arteries is shot 
through ; the man would have bled to death with- 
out immediate assistance.” 

Miriam made no answer. The brandy had re- 
vived her a little, but still she stood with that 


A STRANGE RECOGNITION. 


17 


strange look of fear on her face; still her eyes 
were fixed on the wounded soldier. 

Presently an ambulance, which the doctor had 
ordered to be brought down from the barracks, 
arrived. The wounded man was lifted up and 
placed in it, and carried away by the soldiers, 
the doctor walking by its side. Then Captain 
Escourt offered to escort Miriam Clyde home. 

“ Let me see you safely to the village,” he said, 
and Miriam accepted his offer. He gave the word 
of command to his company, and then walked be- 
hind it with Miriam. 

“ How did it happen?” she asked, as they went. 

“ The poor fellow who is called Dare got in the 
range of the fire somehow or other; I can scarcely 
understand it, as he is a good soldier, though he 
has not joined us long; but some of my men are 
terribly bad shots. ” 

“ Do you think he’ll get better?” asked Miriam, 
with quivering lips. 

“Oh, I dare say he will, though he lost a tre- 
mendous lot of blood in a minute or two. It was 
awfully plucky of you to manage as you did — 
awfully! I don’t understand about these things.” 

“ I took some lessons at an ambulance class,” an- 
swered Miriam, in a low tone. 

“ Well, you have profited by them. You did it 
splendidly. You heard the doctor say you had 
saved the man’s life, for I expect he’ll pull 
through. He’s a well-built young fellow, and 
handsome, and ought to be eternally grateful to 
you for your goodness.” 

2 


CHAPTER II. 


THE soldier’s MESSAGE. 

When Miriam, escorted by Captain Escourt, ar- 
rived at the whitewashed house in the barracks 
yard, where her father and mother lived, she 
parted with Captain Escourt at the door. 

“ I should like to know,” she said, as she shook 
hands with him, “ how the poor man goes on.” 

“ ril call and let you know,” answered Escourt. 
“ I am going to the hospital now to look after him. 
Thank you awfully for what you did for one of 
my poor fellows,” and he touched his cap and 
turned away. 

Then Miriam went slowly into the house, and 
walked feebly to her own room upstairs.. All her 
strength and litheness seemed suddenly to have 
passed away, and when she reached her room she 
sat down and covered her face with her hands. 

“Oh! this is terrible — terrible!” she moaned 
aloud. “ What shall I do? Whatif he weretodie!” 

She was evidently in the deepest perplexity and 
distress. Presently she started to her feet, and 
began pacing the room with restless and uneven 
footsteps. As she wandered backward and for- 
ward a rap came to her bedroom door. 

With an effort she endeavored to compose her- 

i8 


THE soldier’s MESSAGE. 


19 


self, and said, “Come in.” After having done so 
the door of the room opened, and the face of her 
mother’s maid appeared. 

“O Miss Miriam, please,” said the maid; 
“your mamma sent me to tell you that tea is 
ready, and to ask you to come down.” 

“Very well; I shall be down in a moment or 
two,” answered Miriam tremulously. 

“And they say, miss,” continued the maid, 
“ that one of the soldiers has been killed on the 
sands. Banks saw them carrying him up, and 
they said he was dead, poor fellow.” 

“No, no!” said Miriam, in sudden excitement 
and visible distress ; “ not dead, surely. Ford — not 
dead!” 

“Well, that’s what Banks said, miss, but it 
mayn’t be true for all that. Perhaps he might 
run round to the hospital to ask?” 

“ Yes, send him, and I will wait here until he 
comes back. Tell him to go as fast as he can.” 

Upon this Ford disappeared, and Miriam was 
left to her own distracting thoughts. She was in 
a terrible state of anxiety, and wrung her hands 
together in almost uncontrollable emotion. For 
at least ten minutes this went on, and then Ford 
once more appeared at the room door. 

“ No, please, miss, he’s not dead,” she said. 
“ Banks saw one of the orderlies, and he says the 
poor fellow is still alive, though they don’t expect 
him to last; but Dr. Reed and another doctor are 
with him, and they are doing all they can.” 

With these dismal words ringing in her ear^ 


20 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Miriam, a few minutes later went down to her 
mother’s drawing-room, trying to assume a com- 
posure and courage she did not feel. 

Mrs. Clyde was sitting before her tea-table. 
She was a remarkable looking woman; remark- 
able for the regularity and beauty of her features, 
and for a certain acuteness of expression which 
told a keen observer that she was a woman of tal- 
ent and tact. 

She looked at her daughter and smiled as Mir- 
iam entered, and in a moment perceived by the 
girl’s face that something unusual had occurred. 

“ Have you been in long, my dear?” .she asked 
pleasantly. 

“ Not very long, mother,” answered Miriam. 

“And did Sir James persuade you to fix the 
happ)^ day?” she continued, still with her fine dark 
eyes fixed on her daughter’s face. “ He came here 
shortly after you went out. He seems a very eager 
lover, and is most anxious to have the time of your 
wedding fixed; so I sent him down to you on the 
sands, and I suppose you saw him?” 

“Yes, I saw him,” said Miriam, with downcast 
eyes. 

“And is anything settled?” 

“No, mother, he wished to be married in a 
month, but I thought that was too soon.” 

“ My dear, is this wise?” 

“We have been engaged such a short time — oh! 
it is far too soon,” said Miriam, with a touch of 
impatience in her tone. 

“Your father and I do not think so, Miriam.” 


THE soldier’s MESSAGE. 


2 


“ But, mother ” 

“Listen to me, Miriam. Sir James is a young 
man, in a good position — a young man whom very 
many young women would be only too glad to ac- 
cept. You have been fortunate in winning his 
affections, and I advise you not to trifle with 
them.” 

Mrs. Clyde had always brought up her children 
to obey her, and her manner to Miriam told you 
this. It was quiet, but firm, as though she quite 
expected that her words would have due effect. 
She had been quiet, but firm also, when General 
Conray proposed to her eldest daughter Joan, then 
a beautiful girl of twenty, the General being fully 
thirty years her senior, and a friend of her father’s. 
But he was a wealthy man, high in the Service, 
and Joan Clyde was given very little choice in the 
matter. Her mother told her it was an excellent 
match for her, one that herself and her husband 
heartily approved of, and young girls, of course, 
must be guided by their parents. 

So Joan married the General, after shedding 
many tears, some in secret, and some in the pres- 
ence of her firm mother, who, however, gave her 
no encouragement to indulge in any such weak- 
nesses. And Joan went away with her General, 
who was firm also, and a rigid disciplinarian at 
home and abroad; and his young wife was afraid 
of him, and not over happy, it was said; but Mrs. 
Clyde never allowed this. 

“Poor Joan is not very strong-minded,” she 
used to say with a smile. “ She needs a guiding 


22 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


hand, and I am glad to see that the General keeps 
her in order,” 

And one daughter, according to her ideas, being 
so successfully disposed of, she was by no means 
pleased to hear that Miriam seemed inclined to 
trifle with her good luck. Mrs. Clyde had never 
sought to attract men for her daughters, knowing 
well that her girls were too handsome to need 
any efforts of that sort. But when their wooers 
came she expected to be consulted, and her advice 
taken. By her advice Sir James MacKennon had 
been accepted, and she thought Miriam was acting 
foolishly in hesitating to fix the wedding-day. 

“ Did Sir James tell you I approved of an early 
marriage?” she asked. 

“Yes, mother; but please don’t talk of it any 
more just now. Such a dreadful thing has hap- 
pened to-day since I saw Sir James. One of the 
poor soldiers has been shot on the sands.” 

“ That is terribly sad. How did it happen?” 

“Captain Escourt’s company were practising 
firing at a target, and this poor man was marking, 
and I suppose was accidentally shot.” 

Miriam’s voice faltered against her will as she 
made this explanation, and her mother looked at 
her somewhat curiously. 

“You seem quite upset, Miriam, by this acci- 
dent; did you see it?” 

“Yes, mother, I saw it, and I believe the poor 
soldier would have bled to death before Dr. Reed 
came — for Captain Escourt did not seem to un- 
derstand what to do — but as I had gained some 


THE soldier’s MESSAGE. 


23 


knowledge from the ambulance classes last year I 
helped to stop the bleeding until the doctor came.” 

Again the girl’s voice faltered. Mrs. Clyde no- 
ticed this, and that her daughter’s oval cheeks 
were very white. 

“ I am glad you were able to be of some use,” 
she said ; “ but you look quite pale, my dear, and 
I fear this has been a little too much for you. 
Have a cup of tea, Miriam; it will revive you.” 

So Miriam drank the tea, and when she was do- 
ing so her mother once more returned to the sub- 
ject of fixing the wedding-day. 

“When is Sir James coming again?” she said. 

“ He said something about to-morrow, or the 
next day,” answered Miriam uneasily. 

“Then I shall see him,” said Mrs. Clyde calmly. 
“ I do not approve of long engagements, and of 
course about these things young girls must be 
guided by the advice of their parents.” 

She had said almost the very same words to Joan 
Clyde when General Conray had been anxious to 
fix his wedding-day. She had carried her point 
then, and she meant to carry it now. She was a 
determined woman, with her quiet manner and 
her placid smile. Miriam knew this, and grew a 
little paler as she sat there drinking her tea. But 
any further conversation on the point was now 
interrupted by the soldier-servant, Banks, opening 
the room door and announcing; 

“Captain Escourt.” 

With a charming smile, Mrs. Clyde held out 
her white and shapely hand to welcome him. 


24 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ You have just come in time for tea,” she said. 
“ But what is this sad accident Miriam has been 
telling me about, Captain Escourt?” 

“ About the poor fellow who was shot on the 
sands?” answered Captain Escourt. “ It’s an aw- 
ful bad business; but Reed thinks he will pull 
him through.” 

“ Oh ! I am so glad. Colonel Clyde would be so 
distressed if anything serious were to happen to 
any of the men under, his command,” said Mrs. 
Clyde graciously. “ And he is one of your com- 
pany, is he not?” 

“Yes; and a very good soldier, too. It seems it 
was a blundering fool called Smith who fired the 
shot that hit him, for Dare was, I believe, not out 
of his position. If Dare dies. Smith ought to be 
hanged, in my opinion.” 

“ Let us hope that Dare will not die,* then. Of 
course, the other man will be punished?” 

“ Yes, there will be a court martial held on him ; 
but I called to tell Miss Clyde how Dare is going 
on, as she was kind enough to wish to hear. You 
ought to be proud of your daughter, Mrs. Clyde, 
though I dare say you always are.” 

“ And why should I be especially proud of her 
to-day?” asked Mrs. Clyde, looking smilingly at 
Miriam’s pale face. 

“ Because she behaved so splendidly, sopluckily. 
Dare would have been dead by this time if Miss 
Clyde had not contrived to stop the bleeding, for 
one of the main arteries was shot through, Reed 
says. But I should not talk thus ; you must for- 


THE soldier’s MESSAGE. 


25 


give me, Miss Clyde, for I am making you quite 
white.” 

“I think Miriam is a little upset,” said Mrs. 
Clyde. 

“ But not at the time — not when she could be of 
use. She was as brave and as calm as any sur- 
geon could be,” answered Captain Escourt. 

He admired Miriam Clyde, as many other men 
admired her — admired her grace and beauty, and 
a certain dignity in her manner which was un- 
usual, in so young a girl. But Mrs. Clyde, though 
she was always gracious to them, did not encour- 
age the attentions of young officers of no especial 
means, and the young officers were quite conscious 
of this fact. 

She was very charming to them, but still she 
made them quite understand that they were to have 
no intimate friendships with her daughter. There- 
fore she was pleased when Colonel Clyde, her hus- 
band, entered the room, and began talking to 
Captain Escourt, thus diverting his attention from 
Miriam. 

Colonel Clyde was a very tall, thin man, with 
, white hair, white moustache and whiskers, and a 
bronzed, lined face. His wife had much influence 
over him, for her intellectual powers far exceeded 
his. She was quite clever enough to disguise this 
fact from his knowledge, though every one else of 
their acquaintance knew it. 

He was a good soldier, brave, and somewhat 
stern, but respected by officers and men alike. 
He was fond of his children, but like their 


26 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


mother, not very tender in his manner to them. 
Here his wife’s influence came in. She woujd 
jnot allow him to spoil the girls, she said, and 
Miriam stood a little in awe of her father. 

Nevertheless, when Captain Escourt had re- 
peated his story about the wounded soldier, and 
told how brave and clever Miriam had been, the 
Colonel’s face relaxed into a kindly smile, and he 
laid his hand on her shoulder. 

“I am glad to hear this, my girl,” he said; 
“ glad that a soldier’s daughter could be of some 
little service to a soldier in his need.” 

“ I did very little, father,” answered Miriam. 

“ But the very little did some good, it seems,” 
continued Colonel Clyde. “ I must go and see 
the poor fellow by and by. Thank you for com- 
ing to tell me about it, Escourt.” 

At this moment the drawing-room door again 
opened, and the soldier-servant announced : 

“Dr. Reed.” 

“Ah, Reed,” said the Colonel, extending his 
hand; “and how is your poor patient getting on? 
I mean the man who has been shot at the target 
on the sands.” 

“ I hope fairly well, sir, ” answered the young doc- 
tor, and as he did so he glanced as if unconsciously 
at Miriam, who stood listening to his words with 
eager ears and a fast-beating heart. “ He’s very 
low, for he’s lost a tremendous lot of blood, and 
but for Miss Clyde here he would have been a 
dead man by this time. Your daughter, sir, be- 
haved splendidly, if she will allow me to say so.” 


THE SOLDIER S MESSAGE. 


27 


“ I am glad she was of some little help,” said the 
Colonel. “ But, doctor, won’t you have some tea?” 

Dr. Reed accepted this invitation, and Mrs. 
Clyde poured tea out for him ; then rose from the 
table and began talking to her husband and Cap- 
tain Escourt. For a moment Dr. Reed had an 
opportunity of speaking a few words in a low tone 
to Miriam, who was sitting near the tea-table. 

“ I have something for you — something very 
strange,” he said. 

In a moment Miriam’s face had flushed crimson 
and then as quickly grew deadly pale. 

“ I don’t want the others to hear,” continued Dr. 
Reed ; “ best not. In fact, the man asked me not 
to let any one see the few words he has written in 
pencil to you. How can I give them to you un- 
observed?” 

“You mean the — man who was shot?” asked 
Miriam, with clammy, faltering lips. 

“Yes,” answered the doctor. “ He is conscious 
now, and as soon as he became so, he asked for 
paper and a pencil, and begged me to carry what 
he has written to you. I hope you do not consider 
it a liberty, but the poor fellow was' so terribly in 
earnest.” 

“Oh! no, no,” said the poor girl, in terrible 
distress, with her frightened eyes fixed on her 
mother, whose back was turned to her. 

“Shall I slip the note into that book lying 
there?” asked the doctor, who saw there was some 
secret about the wounded soldier that Miss Clyde 
evidently knew. 


28 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Yes, ” half whispered Miriam. As she spoke Dr. 
Reed rose, helped himself to sugar with affected 
carelessness, and at the same time slid a small envel- 
ope between the leaves of the book he had indicated. 

Do you like this book?” he said, handing it 
to Miriam, who eagerly clutched the volume in 
her trembling hand. 

“I do. Dr. Reed,” said Mrs. Clyde, turning 
round ; “ it is interesting, with a certain amount 
of dramatic power,” and she put out her hand as 
though to take the book from Miriam. 

But with a sudden gesture, almost of despair, 
Miriam grasped it closer, then without a word 
rose, and hurriedly left the room, while her 
mother’s eyes followed her in grave surprise. 

“ This affair on the sands seems to have quite 
upset my daughter,” she said, a moment later, 
speaking to Dr. Reed. 

“That is only natural, ” he answered. “Many 
young ladies can’t bear the sight of blood; but 
there is no doubt Miss Clyde behaved splendidly.” 

Meanwhile, Miriam had breathlessly reached 
her own room, locked the door behind her, and 
with trembling fingers opened the book contain- 
ing the note the doctor had placed there. 

It was inclosed in an envelope, which she tore 
open, and then read with starting eyes the few 
feebly written pencilled words it contained. They 
were very brief : 

“ For God’s sake keep my secret!” 

This was the message from the wounded soldier 
to Miriam Clyde. 


CHAPTER III. 


DR. REED. 

Miriam read these brief words again and again ; 
then she passionately kissed them, and her tears 
rushed out on them. 

“Poor, poor fellow!” she murmured; “he need 
not have been afraid.” 

She was still holding the note in her hand — still 
gazing at it with her tearful eyes — when she heard 
the handle of her door turn, and her mother’s 
voice demanding admittance. 

“My dear, are you ill? Why have you locked 
your door?” said Mrs. Clyde outside. 

In a moment Miriam had hidden the note in 
her dress. She unlocked the door, and her mother 
entered, looking at her gravely as she did so. 

“What is the matter, Miriam?” she said. 
“Why did you hurry from the drawing-room in 
such wonderful haste?” 

“I turned suddenly faint, mother,” answered 
Miriam, who was confused and trembling, and her 
mother’s quick glance saw at once that her eyes 
were stained with tears. 

“I am very sorry for that; you really quite 
startled me; and you carried away my novel, too,” 
said Mrs. Clyde, pointing to the book lying on the 
toilet table, which Miriam had brought up. 

29 


30 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I forgot I had it in my hand — I turned sud- 
denly faint.” 

” But why did you lock your door, my dear?” 

“ I did not want any one to know I was not well. 
I thought it was best not to say anything.” 

“ Well, Dr. Reed thinks, and I think, too, that 
this accident to the poor soldier has been too much 
for you. He recommended me to give you a lit- 
tle sal-volatile ; and though, my dear Miriam, I am 
pleased you were able to give some little help, I 
think in the future you had better not attempt to 
do anything of this kind; your nerves are evi- 
dently not equal to it.” 

“ It was very trying, certainly, ” faltered Miriam. 
“ I think, mother, if you do not mind, I should like 
to have some sal-volatile, and then lie down and 
rest a little while before dinner.” 

“That will be the wisest plan, I think. The 
two young men are gone, and your father has 
gone with them, as he is anxious about the poor 
soldier; so I’ll send the sal-volatile up to you by 
Ford. Then lie down and get a rest.” 

“Yes, mother,” said Miriam, and with a pleas- 
ant little nod Mrs. Clyde turned away and left the 
room, and Miriam was alone. 

But she did not lie down, as she said she would. 
She went to her desk, opened it with trembling 
hands, and sat down to write a note to Dr. Reed; 
also a few lines to the wounded soldier under his 
care. She had placed her envelopes and paper 
ready to do this when Ford appeared with the sal- 
volatile. Ford was a sprightly, good-looking girl. 


DR. REED. 


31 


beloved of many soldiers, though she always de- 
clared to her mistress that she would “ not look at 
one of them. ” However this might be, and Mrs. 
Clyde had some reason to doubt the exact truth of 
her statement, numerous soldiers certainly looked 
at her. Banks, the indoor servant of the Colonel, 
was devoted to her, and one or two orderlies, who 
came about the house, were captives to her charms. 

Miriam Clyde liked her, and Ford liked Mir- 
iam. Now Miriam was about to ask a favor 
from her hands. With a sudden flush to her pale 
cheeks she did this, as Ford set down the glass 
containing the sal-volatile. 

“ Ford, I want you to do something forme,” she 
began. 

“I’m sure I’ll be pleased. Miss Miriam,” an- 
swered Ford, with the pleasant ready smile that 
had ensnared the hearts of the orderlies. 

“I — I want a letter posted to Dr. Reed,” con- 
tinued Miriam, blushing deeply, for she did not 
like asking favors from servants. “ I want it 
posted without any one seeing it. I do not want 
mother to know that I have sent it,” 

Ford opened her blue eyes a little wider, as, of 
course, she knew of Miriam’s engagement to Sir 
James MacKennon. But she was a young woman 
with liberal notions on the subject of lovers, and 
concluded that Miss Miriam had a fancy for two. 

“Of course. Miss Miriam, I’ll post it,” she an- 
swered promptly. “ And if I can’t get leave from 
your mamma to go out. Banks will take it for a 
word.” 


32 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ But I do not want Banks to take it, nor any one 
to see it but you,” said Miriam quickly. “Can’t 
you make some excuse to go out when dinner is 
going on?” 

“Oh, of course. Miss Miriam, I can. I can say 
I want some colored silk to match your mamma’s 
blue dress I am altering. Or I might say I have 
a cousin who is ill.” 

“ I dare say mamma will not object to your go- 
ing to get the silk ; so. Ford, if you will do this, 
I will have the note for Dr. Reed ready when you 
come up before dinner. ” 

“To be sure. Miss Miriam; that will be all 
right.” 

“And you have to tell no one I have sent it,” 
repeated Miriam. 

“I will not tell a soul. Miss Miriam,” affirmed 
Ford. 

“ I will write it now, then.” 

“ And I will tell Mrs. Clyde that you have lain 
down, as she desired me to see that you had the 
down quilt over you when you did so,” said the 
ready-tongued Ford. “And now, miss. I’ll leave 
you till it’s time to dress for dinner,” and Ford 
went away. 

Then Miriam commenced her letter to Dr, Reed 
with a troubled heart, choosing her words with 
difficulty and much caution, but feeling all the 
while that she was committing herself deeply in 
his eyes. 

“ Dear Dr. Reed : — I am about to ask a favor from 
your hands, and also to trust to your honor that this 


DR. REED. 


33 


letter, and the incident which occurred between us 
this afternoon, will be spoken of to no one. Will you 
give the little note I inclose to the person from 
whom you brought the note to me? And kindly do 
not answer this letter. I am trusting you, and I feel 
my trust will not be betrayed. With kind regards, I 
remain, sincerely yours, M. C. 

“ P.S. — Perhaps from time to time you will kindly 
let me know how your poor patient is?” 

Having finished her letter to Dr. Reed, Miriam 
then wrote on a note-sheet four single words: 

“ Do not be afraid.” 

These she inclosed in a small envelope without 
any address, and placed this inside Dr. Reed’s let- 
ter. When Ford reappeared she put it into her 
hand. 

“This is the letter. Ford,” she said, and Ford 
at once slipped it into a handy pocket in her dress. 

“It will be quite safe here, miss,” she said, 
smiling. “ I’ve got leave to go out when you are 
at dinner, and the doctor will have it in the morn- 
ing. He is a very good-looking young gentle- 
man.” 

Ford hazarded this last remark, as she was cu- 
rious to know how far “Miss Miriam’s affair” 
with Dr. Reed had gone. 

“Is he?” answered Miriam. “I don’t think I 
ever noticed he was.” 

This reply only convinced Ford that “ Miss Mir- 
iam was very deep.” 

However, she was quite right to be, afterward 
reflected Ford. Considering she was so soon to 
3 


34 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


be “ my lady, ” it never would do for it to be known 
she was “ carrying on with a doctor.” Ford had 
rather an idea in her sharp head, when Miriam 
married, of transferring her services from Mrs. 
Clyde to Lady MacKennon. There would be both 
more dignity and profit in the latter situation. Ford 
considered; and then she personally liked Miriam, 
and thought altogether life would be easier and 
pleasanter under her rule. 

Scarcely were the family at dinner, therefore, 
when Ford went out on her errand, still carrying 
the letter for Dr. Reed in her pocket, as she 
thought it safer there hidden from sight. She 
went straight to the post-office, resisting the ca- 
jolements on the way of one of her amorous order- 
lies, who wished to stop her. 

“No, Johnson, Fm in a hurry,” she said, but 
she smiled, and Johnson felt his heart burn with- 
in him. So she posted her letter, then strolled 
down the high street of the little town, and looked 
into the shop windows, conscious that Johnson 
was following her. She liked to be followed, and 
she smiled again as she tripped into the mercer’s 
shop to buy the silk to sew her mistress’ gown 
with. When she had got what she wanted, she 
found Johnson waiting for her at the shop door. 

“You here!” she said coquettishly, looking up 
with her blue eyes into the soldier’s face. 

“Yes, Miss Ford,” he answered. “ Fm here, 
and Fm very glad to have met ye twice.” 

“Quite a lucky chafice,''' smiled Ford, with a 
marked emphasis on the last word. 


DR. REED. 


35 


“ So it is,” grinned Johnson, “and it’s a pity to 
lose it. May I take a turn with ye. Miss Ford?” 

After some persuasion Ford consented. She 
knew she had “ Banks” safe, as he was waiting at 
dinner, and .so she thought she might as well 
amuse herself a short time with the amorous John- 
son. They had a stroll along the sea-banks, and 
Ford felt both her complexion and her spirits 
were improved by the walk. As for Johnson, he 
was more deeply in love than ever, and felt he 
must do or say something desperate. 

“ I could shoot Banks or any other fellow for 
your sake. Miss Ford,” he said, snatching hold of 
her hand. 

“Please do nothing of the kind,” smiled the 
wily Ford. “ Banks, poor fellow, is a very good 
creature, and very obliging.” 

“ He’d better not be too obliging to you, or I’ll 
punch his head,” answered the bellicose Johnson. 

In this strain the two conversed until Ford de- 
clared she must go home, and Johnson said he 
should accompany her to the Commandant’s back 
door. 

But Ford would not hear of this. 

“ You would not get me into trouble, surely?” she 
said sweetly. “ Mrs. Clyde hates you gentlemen 
in red coats, and thinks you’re very dangerous 
company for me; and maybe she’s right,” she 
added archly. 

Upon which Johnson swore that she was the 
dangerous one, and that she could wile a poor 
man’s heart out of his body, and bring his soul 


36 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


into very hot water indeed, all for her sake. Ford 
listened well pleased. She was essentially of that 
order of womanhood who live on flattery, and care 
very little for the provider when the meal is over. 
Johnson was all very well, but she had no more 
idea of having anything serious to say to him than 
of flying. The man, on the contrary, was really 
ensnared by the maid’s blue eyes. His feelings 
were stronger than Ford had reckoned on, and 
Ford unconsciously was playing with fire. 

He, however, complied with her request, and 
parted with her before they came in sight of the 
Commandant’s house. J ohnson squeezed her hand 
ardently, as he bade her farewell, and Ford smiled 
and showed her white teeth, and then spent the 
Test of the evening coquetting with Banks, when 
he was released from his duties at the Colonel’s 
dinner-table. But she found time, also, to meet 
Miriam Clyde on the staircase, and whisper a 
word in her eager ears. 

“The letter is in the post. Miss Miriam,’’ she 
said, “and he’ll get it first thing in the morn- 
ing.’’ 

“Thank you,’’ answered Miriam briefly, and 
passed on, for Mrs. Clyde was at no great distance 
from them. 

Dr. Reed did get his letter by the first delivery 
the next morning, and read it with a smile. 

“So,’’ he thought, “this grand and haughty 
young woman, whom no one was good enough al- 
most to speak to, had her own little affair — and 
with a private soldier, too ! However, I am bound 


DR. REED. 


37 


in honor to hold my tongue ; but I am rather sorry 
for Sir James MacKennon,” and again he smiled. 

But he felt curious. He went to the hospital 
before breakfast, and the first patient he visited 
was the wounded soldier, Dare. It was a beauti- 
ful morning, in the late autumn. The sun was 
glinting in golden shafts through a faint haze, and 
one of these gleams fell on Dare’s face as he lay 
sleeping with his arms flung above his head. The 
young doctor stood looking at him contempla- 
tively. He was handsome, with regular features, 
dark-marked brows, and dark moustache and hair. 
Altogether a somewhat remarkable face, with a 
full under-lip, a firm jaw, and a rounded chin. 
About him — even in his sleep — was that nameless 
expression which tells of gentle birth. 

“ Some poor devil who has come to grief, I sup- 
pose,” reflected the doctor, who was shrewd. At 
this moment the sleeping man stirred uneasily. 

“Miriam, come away, come away!” he mut-’ 
tered in the unnatural tones of slumber. “ He is 
dead — I saw his eyes staring. Miriam, come 
away!” 

Evidently some scene of horror was passing be- 
fore his brain, for he clenched his hands and knit 
his dark brows, and his expression changed. An 
orderly, who had sat up with him during the night, 
and was now watching him also, said in a low 
voice to the doctor: 

“ He’s rambled on like that, and talked non- 
sense a good deal, in the night, sir.” 

The doctor silently nodded his head and put 


38 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


his fingers on the sick man’s wrist. At his touch 
Dare started and awoke. 

“Well, my man, how are you feeling?’’ asked 
the doctor. 

For a moment Dare made no answer; beseemed 
scarcely to understand; then he smiled faintly. 

“ I feel weak, sir,’’ he said. 

“That is to be expected,” answered Dr. Reed, 
and then he proceeded with his medical examina- 
tion. Presently he sent the orderly for something 
he wanted, and when they were alone he once more 
spoke to Dare. 

“Well, I gave your note to the young lady,” he 
said, “ and this morning I had a letter from her 
inclosing this note for you.” 

Dare eagerly put out his hand and clutched the 
small note the doctor handed to him. 

“Thank you, sir! I do not know how to thank 
you,” he said quickly. 

“Don’t mind me; read your note,” smiled the 
doctor. Having got permission. Dare nervously 
opened the envelope and read the four simple 
words it contained, with eager eyes. 

“ Do not be afraid.” 

Dr. Reed had turned away his head for a mo- 
ment, but he was curious and quick-sighted, and 
as he glanced once more at the wounded man, 
whose gray eyes were still fixed on the paper in 
his trembling hands, the doctor also read the 
words in the note, and grew more curious still. 


DR. REED. 39 

“ I suppose you formerly knew the young lady?” 
he said. 

Dare visibly hesitated. 

“Oh! come, I don’t want to pry into your [^se- 
crets,” laughed the doctor; “but in her letter to 
me she asked me to let her know how you go on ; 
so you see she has a strong interest in you.” 

Dare cast down his gray eyes with their dark 
lashes, and his lips quivered. 

“She is very good,” he said, “more than 

good ” then he suddenly looked up in the 

doctor’s face. 

“You have been very good, doctor, also,” he 
went on, “ and — and this I may tell you, though I 
am sure you will not speak of it. I once knew — 
or rather saw — Miss Clyde under circumstances 
that were greatly to her honor.” 

“ I have no doubt of it, my man, ” smiled the doc- 
tor, who quite understood that Dare did not mean 
to confide in him; “and you need not be afraid — 
neither you nor the young lady need be afraid — 
for I seldom, indeed never, speak of what does not 
concern me. Here comes the orderly with the 
dressing, and I must have a look at your leg.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


FIXING THE DAY. 

On the afternoon of the same day Sir James 
MacKennon arrived at the Commandant’s house 
at Newbrough-on-the-Sea, and Banks at once 
ushered him into the drawing-room where Mrs. 
Clyde was; for Banks had received orders when 
Sir James came that she wished to speak to him 
before Miss Clyde was told of his arrival. 

So Sir James strode into the room with his stal- 
wart step, and Mrs. Clyde smiled her welcome. 

“Very pleased to see you,” she said sweetly, 
holding out her well-formed hand. “ Where will 
you sit?” 

Sir James drew a chair near Mrs. Clyde’s easy 
one, and looked, it must be admitted, rather un- 
comfortable. 

“ It’s about that little girl of mine I wished to 
speak to you,” she said, still smiling. She spoke 
of Miriam as “ a little girl” merely in a figurative 
sense, Miriam being really tall and slim. “ About 
Miriam. We were talking yesterday, you remem- 
ber, about fixing the time of your marriage, and 
you said you would try to persuade Miriam to fix 
it soon — in a month, I think, was it not?” 

“ But I tried in vain,” answered Sir James, with 
40 


FIXING THE DAY. 


41 


an ingenuous blush stealing over his honest face. 
“ Miriam said it was too soon, and I could not get 
her to promise to fix any time." 

“ My dear Sir James, Miriam is like other girls, 
coy and shy. Not that all girls are, to be sure!" 
Mrs. Clyde gave her shoulders a little shrug and 
raised her eyebrows. “ But she is, and my other 
girl. General Conray’s wife, was also. In fact, I 
brought them up in rather an old-fashioned school 
— to be modest young women, and not forward 
ones; and, therefore, you see poor Miriam is so shy 
about fixing her wedding-day that I propose that 
we should do it for her, and thus spare all her 
pretty blushes." 

“ I need not say that I shall be too happy — that 
any time " eagerly blurted out Sir James. 

“ I am sure of it, and I am sure, also, that the 
little girl will be very glad to have it all settled 
for her. Joan, my eldest daughter, allowed me 
to settle her wedding day, and I know Miriam 
will, too. Well, you thought of a month? Shall 
we say a month to-day?” 

“ I shall be delighted — only too delighted — if 
you can persuade Miriam." 

“Leave Miriam to me," said Mrs. Clyde, with 
her sweetest smile. “And have you heard what 
a little heroine she came out yesterday after you 
left her on the sands?” 

“No; how was that?" 

“ Well, it seems a poor soldier was dangerously 
wounded when marking at a target, and would 
have bled to death but for Miriam. She had some 


42 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


ambulance lessons in the winter, and she turned 
them to good account on this emergency. She 
stopped the bleeding, and the doctor says saved 
the poor man’s life. Her father is very pleased.” 

“Dear little girl! How brave it was of her!” 
exclaimed Sir James, with emotion. 

” It was brave, was it not? But the poor child 
felt the reaction of the excitement when it was 
over, and was not very well during the rest of. the 
evening. Her cheeks_have lost some of their 
pretty pink paint this morning, I can assure you. 
You will have to bring it back again, Sir 
James.” 

Sir James blushed furiously. 

“In fact, we’ll consider it settled, then,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Clyde — “ settled between you and me 
that to-day month has to be your wedding day? 
Do not, however, speak of it to Miriam to-day. 
Leave me to arrange all about it with her, for 
she was nervous and upset yesterday with this 
affair on the sands, so we must keep her very 
quiet to-day.” 

“I will say nothing to disturb her; but, Mrs. 
Clyde, of course it must be as Miriam wishes — 
about the time, I mean. I would not, for any 
selfish feelings of my own, have her worried into 
anything she did not wish.” 

“ My dear young man, you do not know the 
feminine heart! Girls — women — like, to have a 
little pressure on such subjects from their lovers 
and parents. In fact, they like to be wooed and 
won, seemingly against their wills all the time. 


FIXING THE DAY. 


43 


I am sure Miriam is greatly attached to you. She 
would not have accepted your proposal if it had 
not been so.” 

“You make me very happy,” said Sir James, 
and again he blushed. “ I care for Miriam very 
much. I never cared for any one before, and my 
greatest wish on earth is to have her for my wife.” 

“Well, your greatest wish shall soon be ac- 
complished, then. Few men or women marry 
their first love, and Miriam ought to be proud, 
therefore, at having won yours.” 

“ I am proud, at any rate, to — to be loved by 
her. I always feel that I am not good enough for 
her. Still, I will try ” 

“Don’t spoil her; that is all I am afraid of,” 
said Mrs. Clyde graciously, as Sir James paused. 
While she spoke she rose to leave the room. 
“Now I will send her to you,” she added; “and I 
hope you will stay and dine with us. Sir James.” 

He was only too happy to promise to do so; 
only too happy when Miriam, pale and embar- 
rassed, entered the room to have her, as he ex- 
pressed it, “all to himself.” But he took her 
mother’s advice, and did not speak on any ex- 
citing subject. He told her about the Colonel’s 
“big at home” the day before, and how proud and 
pleased he was to hear how good she had been “ to 
the poor soldier.” 

“It was nothing,” said Miriam, with a sudden 
blush. 

“ It was what not one girl in a hundred would 
have done.” 


44 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“Oh, what nonsense, Sir James! Hundreds of 
girls — young ladies — go to be nurses now, and do 
all sorts of things for poor sick people. But I am 
afraid I couldn’t; I have not the nerve. Even 
seeing the poor soldier wounded yesterday has 
upset me.” 

“My darling little girl!” said Sir James, and 
he kissed her little hand. He was longing to tell 
her how he hoped to take care of her; to watch 
over her in all their coming days, to shield herself 
and her nerves from every possible ill. He was 
very fond of her, and his heart was very warm 
and true. Her mother was right when she had 
told him that Miriam might be proud to have won 
his love ; yet, alas, this was not so. 

Presently he persuaded her to go out for a 
walk, and as they passed near the hospital he asked 
her if she should like him to go and inquire after 
the wounded soldier. Miriam hesitated a moment, 
and a flush rose to her face. 

“ If you like ” she said. 

“It’s as you like, darling; but I thought you 
would be interested in the poor fellow after doing 
so much for him?” 

“Oh, I am interested.” 

“ Then I’ll go. You stop here, darling, and I’ll 
be back in a minute.” 

So Miriam stood still, and Sir James walked 
quickly to the entrance of the hospital. As he 
was about to enter the gateway. Dr. Reed was 
coming out of it. Sir James knew Dr. Reed 


FIXING THE DAY. 


45 


slightly, having met him at the Clydes’, and he at 
once held out his hand to the doctor. 

“ I have come to inquire how the poor fellow is 
who was shot yesterday,” he said; “ Miss Clyde is 
anxious to know.” 

Dr. Reed smiled. 

“He is going on as well as we could possibly 
expect,” he answered. “He lost a lot of blood, 
you know, but he is a fine, strong, young fellow, 
and I expect he will pull himself together in a 
day or two.” 

“ That’s all right ; how did it happen? Through 
some blunder?” 

“ Don’t know. There’s a report in the regiment 
that the man who did it — one Smith — had a grudge 
against Dare; but that will have to be inquired 
into.” 

“ Of course. Well, doctor. Miss Clyde is wait- 
ing for rrie, so I must say good-day.” 

Again Dr. Reed smiled. Then he took off his 
hat to Miriam, who was standing a little way off, 
and the situation inwardly amused him. As for 
Miriam, she felt overwhelmed when she saw Dr. 
Reed. She bowed in return to his salutation, but 
did not look up, and the doctor was too good- 
natured to approach her nearer. So he went on 
his way, wondering how it was possible for any 
man to trust a woman. Here was a girl sending 
one lover — her betrothed lover — to inquire after 
another lover, reflected the doctor grimly; for he 
never doubted that in some way or other Dare had 
been the lover of Miriam Clyde. 


46 • 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“What would her mother say,” he thought, “if 
she knew? By Jove!” 

In the mean time, Miriam and Sir James were 
going along the sea-banks, looking at the long 
rolling waves of the restless sea. Ever had the 
great mass of blue-green waters a great charm for 
Miriam, for their mystic murmurs seemed to bring 
back other scenes more clearly to her brain. It 
was by the sea — another sea, though — that a dark 
shadow had fallen on her life. She was thinking 
of this now; thinking of the sudden end to a brief, 
bright love dream ; and over her came a strange 
yearning toward the past. 

Sir James was chatting about his place in Scot- 
land, where he had extensive estates, and Miriam 
heard, half- vaguely, of the splendid trout stream, 
of the deer forests, and the blue waters of the 
loch ; but her heart was not amid the heather and 
the hills. Another picture — the moonlight gleam- 
ing on the sand, and a young pair standing hand- 
clasped, keeping their secret tryst — rose vividly 
before her even as Sir James expatiated on the 
wild beauties of his native land. 

“ And your sister and her husband, darling. It 
will be awfully jolly for us to have them at Kin- 
tore, won’t it?” she heard him sa}^ presently, and 
this direct question recalled her from her revery. 

“Yes,” she said, still with her eyes fixed upon 
the sea. 

“What is your sister like, Miriam?” he asked. 

“She is very jike me,” she answered, in a low 
tone. 


FIXING THE DAY. 


47 


“ But she is much older, I suppose?” 

“No,” said Miriam, still in the same low tone; 
“Joan is only two years older than I am.” 

“Yet she is married to a General.” 

“ General Conray is quite old ; old enough to be 
her father. ” 

“ How funny that she should have married an 
old fellow like that!” 

Miriam bit her lips, and a look of sharp pain 
contracted her brows. 

“ It is very strange, is it not?” she said. 

‘^Extraordinary! And she must be very hand- 
some, too, if she is anything like my Miriam.” 

“She is thought good-looking,” answered Mir- 
iam; and then she changed the conversation. 
Evidently the subject of her sister’s marriage was 
not a welcome one. Sir James decided, and he de- 
termined to avoid it in future. 

But, on the whole, their walk was a pleasant 
one, and a little color had stolen back to Miriam’s 
pale cheeks when they returned to the Comman- 
dant’s whitewashed house. Sir James had told 
her that he was going to remain to dinner, and 
Mrs. Clyde met them smilingly as they entered 
the hall. 

“ So you have had a walk; and you look all the 
better for it, too, Miriam, my dear,” she said. “I 
am so glad you are going to stay to dinner. Sir 
James, for quite by chance we are going to have 
an old friend of my husband’s, too — Colonel Low- 
rey. Have you ever met him?” 

“Not that I know of,” answered Sir James. 


48 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“No: it’s very unlikely; he has just recently 
returned from India, and is so brown! He’s a 
nice man and we’ve known him many years ; he 
knew the girls when they were babies.’’ 

Sir James laughed. 

“ I wonder if he’ll treat Miriam as a baby now^” 
he said good-naturedly, looking fondly and 
proudly at Miriam’s charming face. 

She laughed also, and then went upstairs to 
dress for dinner. Presently Ford came to assist 
her. 

Ford judiciously made no further allusion to 
the letter to Dr. Reed. She brought up some 
flowers which had just arrived from a florist’s in 
the town. She said the boy who had left them 
told her that a gentleman had ordered them for 
Miss Clyde. 

“ I suppose it was Sir James?’’ said Miriam. 

“ The boy didn’t mention any name. Miss Mir- 
iam, only a gentleman,’’ answered Ford, smiling. 
“ Maybe they’re from some one else?” 

Miriam did not speak. She fastened one or two 
of the beautiful carnations in her dress, and when 
she went into the drawing-room Sir James ad- 
vanced eagerly toward her, for they were alone. 

“Thank you for wearing them,” he said; “they 
were the best I could get. ” 

“ Thank you for sending them ; they are beau- 
tiful,” smiled Miriam. 

Then a bronzed, gray-headed, soldierly looking 
man entered the room, whom Miriam introduced 
as “Colonel Lowrey. ” He bore the marks of thq 


FIXING THE DAY. 


49 


land of the sun bravely, and his whole bearing 
told you he had been a man of war from his youth 
upward. A spear-wound from a dusky Arab had 
left one of the sleeves of his coat armless, and a 
purple line on his forehead, which crept under his 
gray hair, told its on story. 

“What a tall girl you have grown!” he said 
smilingly to Miriam. “ I knew this young lady. Sir 
James, when she was about the size of my hand.’' 

“ That is a gross exaggeration. Colonel Low- 
rey,” said Miriam, laughing. 

“Well, I had the honor of seeing you when you 
were exactly two days old, at any rate. Miss Mir- 
iam. ” 

“And what was I like?” smiled Miriam. 

“ I have no very distinct recollection, but I 
think you are improved by age.” 

They all laughed at this, and while they were 
doing so Mrs. Clyde entered the room, gracious 
and agreeable as usual. 

“What is amusing you?” she said, looking at 
the little group of three. 

“ Colonel Lowrey is amusing us, mother, by his 
account of my babyhood. ” 

“ She’s grown a great girl, hasn’t she?” smiled 
Mrs. Clyde, looking at the Colonel. 

“Yes, it’s wonderful; and it seems only like 
yesterday. Yet a great many things have hap- 
pened since then,” and Colonel Lowrey sighed. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Clyde, and she also 
gave a little sympathetic sigh, and glanced at the 
Colonel’s empty sleeve. 

4 


50 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


But he had not left his good spirits with his arm 
in the sand of the desert. He was excellent com- 
pany, and as he was a keen sportsman, he inter- 
ested Sir James exceedingly in his descriptions of 
the big game of the jungle and the swamp. The 
dinner passed off most agreeably, for Mrs. Clyde 
was a famous hostess, and drew out the powers of 
her guests with admirable tact. Before the even- 
ing was over Sir James MacKennon had invited 
Colonel Lowrey to dine with him at the cavalry 
mess at Halstone on the following evening, and 
to go deerstalking with him in the Highlands. 
Sir James looked sentimentally at Miriam as he 
gave the latter invitation. 

They all parted the best of friends. Miriam 
went to bed tired, and slept fairly well, in spite of 
certain racking anxieties in her mind. She was 
rather late in going down to breakfast the next 
morning, and when she did so she found her father 
and mother already seated at the table. Mrs. 
Clyde seemed in good spirits, and they discussed 
the conversation at the dinner of the evening be- 
fore. Then Colonel Clyde, who was in undress 
uniform, rose to go to his military duties, and the 
mother and daughter were alone. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Clyde, as Miriam finished 
her breakfast; “will you come up with me to 
my room now? I have got something to say to 
you.” 

Miriam’s face flushed, and she began to tremble 
as she listened to this invitation. From their 
earliest childhood, to be requested to go to their 


FIXING THE DAY. 


51 


mother’s room had meant something serious to 
Joan and Miriam Clyde. There they had received 
due punishment for their youthful offences, and 
there they had been taught to respect their 
mother’s authority. And there, also, Joan had 
been told she was to marry General Conray at 
a certain date;, and she did marry him. There- 
fore Miriam was sick at heart as she followed her 
mother up the staircase, and entered the room 
where she was sure she was about to hear some- 
thing she was unwilling to listen to. 

“Shut the door, my dear,” said Mrs. Clyde, in 
her quiet but firm way. Miriam stood before her 
mother with her dark eyes cast down. 

“ I wish to speak to you about your wedding 
day, Miriam,” began Mrs. Clyde, looking steadily 
at her daughter. “ Sir James and I settled it yes- 
terday; we settled it for a month yesterday.” 

“A month from yesterday!” repeated Miriam, 
aghast. “Impossible, mother!” 

“Why impossible, my dear?” asked Mrs. Clyde 
calmly. 

“Because — because I cannot be married then,” 
said Miriam, in great distress, thinking of a life 
dearer than her own hanging on the balance. 

“ Don’t ask me to do this mother, for I cannot!” 

“ I don’t ask you, Miriam ; I tell you simply it 
is to be. Everything is arranged, and your father 
has promised to give me a hundred pounds to pro- 
vide your trousseau ; so you see, my dear, it is no 
use your making any stupid objections.’ 

Miriam stood silent for a moment, and then with 


52 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


a sudden and passionate gesture she caught her 
mother’s reluctant hand. 

“ Give me more time, mother!” she prayed “ I 
will try to keep faith with Sir James — but give me 
more time!” 


CHAPTER V. 


JOAN. 

Mrs. Clyde coldly withdrew her hand from her 
daughter’s impassioned clasp. 

“Do not be absurd and theatrical, Miriam,” 
she .said repressively. “Keep faith with Sir 
James, indeed! What a ridiculous speech from 
your lips!” 

“You know what I mean, mother. Sir James 
is, I believe, a great deal too good for me ; but I 
meant I would not willingly make him unhappy.” 

“ Make him unhappy? May I ask what you 
mean?” 

“ I think it would make him unhappy if our 
engagement were broken off,” said Miriam, with 
some courage. 

“ Your engagement broken off!” repeated Mrs. 
Clyde, in strong indignation, and for once the even 
tones of her voice were raised. “You must be 
mad, Miriam, even to name such a thing!” 

“Yet engagements sometimes are broken off, 
mother,” said Miriam. As she spoke she raised 
her dark eyes to her mother’s face, and for the 
first time in her life as she did so Mrs. Clyde real- 
ized that she had to deal with a different and 
stronger nature than her daughter Joan’s. 

53 


54 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Hitherto Miriam had always been very obedient 
and submissive to her mother’s wishes; therefore, 
to Mrs. Clyde’s mind, her refusal to be married 
on the day Mrs. Clyde had fixed on seemed some- 
thing very like rank rebellion. 

She was silent for a moment or two, and in that 
moment or two she made up her mind how to 
act. 

“ My dear,” she said, resuming her usual placid 
but firm manner, when anything serious was un- 
der discussion, “ it seems to me that this conver- 
sation is a very unnecessary and unprofitable one. 
Do you imagine for a moment that either your 
father or myself would allow an honorable man 
like Sir James MacKennon to be treated with dis- 
courtesy and disrespect? You accepted him will- 
ingly as your future husband, and the day of your 
marriage has been decided on by your father and 
mother and your future husband. To alter it, or 
postpone it, is not to be thought of ; it would be 
an insult to Sir James to do so. You will be mar- 
ried, my dear, on the day I have named ; and it 
now only remains to discuss the arrangement of 
your trousseau. Your father, as I told you, will 
give me a hundred pounds, and I suggest, as 
Sir James is a rich man, that we should not buy 
many things, but that what we do buy should be 
very good. Do you think this too, Miriam?” 

Miriam did not speak. She knew she might as 
well try to bend a granite rock as her mother’s 
will ; but all the same she determined not to be 
married in a month. 


JOAN. 


55 


“ I will ask Sir James to put it off," she thought, 
and she had great faith in Sir James. She, in- 
deed, respected his character. She might, per- 
haps, have loved him — but not now. 

“We must arrange to go up to town to spend 
our hundred pounds," continued Mrs. Clyde pleas- 
antly. “ It is not much, but you will not want 
much; I expect Sir James will be very generous 
about pin-money, etc." 

“ I think his nature is generous," said Miriam. 

“ I am sure it is. You are a lucky girl, indeed, 
to have won such a man ! He is not only all one 
can wish as to character, but his position and for- 
tune are both so desirable. Well, we must invite 
Joan and her husband to the wedding in time. 
Joan made a good match, also, but not equal to 
yours.” 

Again Miriam was silent. No one knew better 
than she did the result of Joan’s “ good match 
no one knew better the secrets of her brother-in- 
law’s household. There was a skeleton hidden 
away under General Conray’s roof — a skeleton 
hidden, yet ever present to the heart of the young 
wife. To do Mrs. Clyde justice, she did not know 
this; she merely thought Joan was a foolish young 
woman not to look perfectly happy and content 
with the fate she had provided for her. 

“ I will write to Joan to-day, I think, and tell 
her it is all settled about your marriage," pres- 
ently said Mrs. Clyde. “ I was so pleased Colonel 
Lowrey liked Sir James so much. Colonel Low- 
rey is a shrewd man — acute and shrewd — and I 


56 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


am glad he at once formed such a good opinion 
of Sir James.” 

“They seemed to get on very well together,” 
answered Miriam. 

“Oh! the Colonel was quite charmed with Sir 
James, and pleased that you will have such a good 
husband. Well, my dear, I think now as our lit- 
tle chat is over, I must get to work. I have the 
household things to see after, and my letter to 
write to Joan, and some other letters also. Go 
and practise for an hour, Miriam, as Sir James is 
fond of music; and I should like him to think that 
you play well.” 

“Very well, mother,” said Miriam quietly, and 
then she left the room, and Mrs. Clyde smiled 
placidly as the door closed behind her. She smiled 
because she thought she had conquered, and Mrs. 
Clyde was a woman who loved to conquer. After 
a few moments of thought she sat down to write 
to the daughter she had conquered — to Joan, wife 
of General Conray — and her letter also was a little 
triumphant. In it, however, she made no allu- 
sion to Miriam’s objection to be married on the 
day she had settled. She simply told her daugh- 
ter that Miriam was to be married on that day, 
and she invited General Conray and his wife to be 
present at the ceremony, and trusted that they 
would be her guests for a few days before and 
after the marriage. Then she detailed the attrac- 
tions that Sir James MacKennon possessed — his 
wealth, his position, and his character, just as vShe 
had detailed them a few minutes before to Mir- 


JOAN. 


57 


iam. “ I am perfectly satisfied with the mar- 
riage, ’’she wrote, “ and consider Miriam the luck- 
iest girl in the world.” 

The letter duly sped on its way, and reached on 
the following morning a handsome stone house, 
standing in its own grounds, at this time occupied 
by General Conray, who commanded at this 
time also a division of troops stationed in the 
neighborhood. This house was named Tye- 
ford Hall, and from the upper windows you saw 
the blue sea-line of the southern coast. It was 
furnished when General Conray took it. Its 
owner was an invalid who lived principally 
abroad*, and was glad to let Tyeford Hall to so 
good a tenant as the General. Mrs. Clyde’s letter 
arrived there in the General’s letter-bag, and the 
letter-bag was always unlocked at breakfast-time 
by the General’s own hand. 

While he is handing out the letters one by one, 
and glancing with his keen eye at the superscrip- 
tion of each, let us look at him. A tall man, gray 
headed, with sharp, well-cut, stern features was 
the General. His thin lips were shaded by a 
heavy, gray mustache, and his eye-brows were 
gray also. He was between fifty and sixty, a sol- 
dier every inch of him. But he was not a popular 
commander. He was too rigid, too hard, and had 
no sympathy to give to the shortcomers. 

Such was Mrs. Clyde’s son-in-law, and in out- 
ward appearance he was not very unlike her hus- 
band. But though they were old friends, his 
character was very different to Colonel Clyde’s. 


58 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Mrs. Clyde could never have guided and controlled 
him as she did the Colonel with her silken rein. 

And his wife — the fair woman, who was sitting 
opposite to him at the breakfast-table as he drew 
out the letters; what of her? Joan Clyde in her 
girlhood had been considered remarkably pretty — 
singularly like her younger sister Miriam, but 
with more strictly regular features. Their height, 
hair and coloring were, however, wonderfully 
similar, and they had the same dark expressive 
eyes. But the expression in these dark eyes were 
very different in the two sisters. Joan’s were lan- 
guid, dreamy, shy; while in Miriam’s there was 
more force, more power. Instinctively you knew 
the younger sister had a stronger will, a stronger 
mind. But they were both attraetive, though peo- 
ple said that lately the beauty of the General’s 
wife had waned. 

She was glaneing at her husband’s stern face as 
he drew out the letters with a sort of half-fright- 
ened look in her large eyes. And she nervously 
held out her hand for the one which he presently 
handed to her. 

“Here is a letter from your mother, Joan,’’ he 
said. 

Even his voice was hard and rigid, and he did 
not smile as he gave Mrs. Clyde’s letter to his wife. 

“Thank you,’’ she answered, as she took it and 
opened the envelope. 

We already know the contents of this letter — 
the announcement that Miriam’s wedding-day was 
fixed, the invitation, and the praises of Sir James. 


JOAN. 59 

Joan read all this, and her sensitive lips quivered 
a little as she did so. 

‘‘ What is it all about?” asked the General pres- 
ently, looking up from his letters. As he spoke, 
he held out his hand to receive Mrs. Clyde’s back, 
for he always read his wife’s letters. 

“ It is about Miriam’s marriage with Sir James 
MacKennon,” answered Joan, as she placed the 
letter in his hand. 

Then the General read it in his turn. After he 
had done so he laid it on the table. 

“Well, I think it is a very good thing for your 
sister,” he said; “and your mother seems very 
pleased about it. ” 

“Yes, I think mother is very pleased; but it 
seems rather a short engagement,” answered Joan. 

“The shorter the better, I should say, under 
the circumstances,” said the General tersely, and 
Joan’s delicately-tinted face flushed as he spoke. 

“ Mrs. Clyde is quite right to hurry on the mar- 
riage, ” he continued; “quite right. Sir James 
MacKennon might not be so willing a bridegroom 
if he knew the extraordinary circumstance attend- 
ing your sister’s last engagement, for I conclude 
it was an engagement?” 

Joan’s bosom began to heave, and she was evi- 
dently painfully agitated. 

“Oh! do not speak of it,” she said tremulously. 

“But I must speak of it, and think of it, too,” 
answered the General sharply. “ Remember, Rob- 
ert was my nephew, and I cannot forget, if you 
can, his miserable fate. ” 


6o 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“I do not forget,” murmured Joan, with her 
quivering lips. 

“ By your sister’s own confession, she was with 
him that night ; and it is the mystery about the 
whole affair — the want of motive — that I cannot 
understand ; for I do not believe Robert had ' an 
enemy in the world. ” 

Joan did not speak; she was too deeply moved. 

“ However, I believe it will be cleared up some 
day,” continued the General, rising, and gathering 
together his correspondence. “ Such deeds are 
seldom unpunished ; in fact, they bring their own 
punishment.” 

Still no words came from Joan’s quivering lips. 

“At all events, it hasn’t broken your sister’s 
heart, it seems, ” went on the General, half bitterly. 
“ It is just eighteen months ago, and now she is 
going to make this fine match! Poor Robert!” 
As he said these last two words, he left the 
room, carrying his papers with him ; and Joan was 
left alone. 

She buried her face in her hands, and tears 
rushed through her slender fingers. 

“Poor Robert!” she moaned, rocking herself 
to and fro, as if in uncontrollable grief. “ Poor 
Robert!” 


CHAPTER VI. 


Miriam’s request. 

Mrs. Clyde thought she had bent Miriam to her 
will; but Miriam’s opposition had not been so 
easily overawed as her mother thought. 

For while Mrs. Clyde was writing her letter of 
invitation to the General and his wife, Miriam was 
writing to Sir James, to ask him to meet her the 
following day on the sands at Newbrough-on-the- 
Sea, before he came to her father’s house. This 
letter pleased Sir James very much. It was by 
no means a loving epistle, but in it she told him 
she had a request to make, and she put this so 
prettily that Sir James’s heart was all aglow with 
love. He was generous and warm-hearted, and 
the only outlet he could indulge his feelings in 
was to hurry to the jeweller’s! Having spent a 
considerable sum of money in the purchase of a 
necklace for Miriam, he felt more at ease. He 
would give this to his dear little girl to-morrow, 
he told himself, and whatever she asked of him he 
would do. And when to-morrow came, and Miriam 
went down to the sands at the appointed hour, 
there was Sir James waiting and watching for her, 
and ready to obey her will. 

Miriam took his eager, outstretched hand with 

6i 


62 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


some embarrassment ; but Sir James only felt joy. 
To look on her face, to touch her hand, was, indeed, 
always joy to him. To his eyes she was the fairest 
of women, and he saw no fault in her. 

“And you want to ask me something, dear?” 
he said a few moments after they met. 

“ Yes,” and Miriam’s voice faltered a little. 

“And what is it? — tell me. You have only to 
ask. ” 

“It is about — our marriage. Sir James,” an- 
swered Miriam, with a quick blush. “ Mother 
told me yesterday that you and she had fixed that 
we were to be married in a month. It cannot be 
so soon. ” 

Sir James’s face lengthened considerably. 

“Not so soon?” he repeated, blankly. 

“No; and I want you to put it off for another 
month or so. I want you to tell mother this — to 
tell her you wish it delayed ; for she will not listen 
to me.” 

“But, my dear,” began Sir James, yet more 
blankly — and then he paused. 

“ Oh! will you do this to please me. Sir James?” 
said Miriam eagerly; “to please me very much? 
If you will even put it off one month — that is, two 
months from now. I — I will marry you then.” 

“Of course, I will do anything you wish,” said 
Sir James slowly. “ I told your mother that the 
time must depend on you, and — and however great 
the disappointment is to myself that does not mat- 
ter. But the awkward part of it is, how can I do 
this? It will look as though ” 


Miriam’s request. 63 

“ Please do not mind how it looks ! Say you 
find the time does not suit you; say anything.” 

“ But it might give Mrs. Clyde a wrong im- 
pression. The best thing for me to say, dear, is 
that you do not wish it to be for two months; and 
of course that is sufficient.” 

“ Not with my mother. She has made up her 
mind it has to be in a month, and nothing I could 
say would have the least impression on her. But 
what you say and wish will ; and I hope you will 
do this — for my sake!” 

“I would do anything for your sake,” he an- 
swered, and he took her hand and looked tenderly 
in her face. Miriam’s dark eyes fell beneath the 
gaze of his clear gray ones. “ But what if your 
mother is offended with me? What if she will not 
give you to me at all — if she thinks I am playing 
fast and loose?” 

“ There is no fear, ” said Miriam, half bitterly. 

“You will not throw me over in the end?” 
pleaded Sir James earnestly. 

“No, no! do not be afraid; but just now — I — 
do not wish to be married, and so I have trusted in 
you. I have come to you to help me.” 

“ My darling, if you will tell me what to say I 
will say it, whatever it costs me.” 

“ Say you are going on leave to Norway— any- 
where. ” 

“ And I thought you would go with me when I 
went on leave,” said Sir James ruefully. “ Don’t 
ask me to go on leave ; let me at least stay near 


64 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ But we must make some excuse.” 

“ I still think it would be the best plan for me 
to go openly to your mother and tell her that as 
you wish our marriage to be delayed another 
month, that of course your wishes are law to me. 
She could not insist on it taking place sooner if I 
said that.” 

“ I don’t know ” 

“ But, my dear, how could she? If I said that 
we had made up our minds not to be married for 
two months, it would be impossible for Mrs. Clyde 
or any one else to force us to be married against 
our wills.” 

“ My mother is so determined.” • 

Sir James gave a little laugh. 

“Well, we will be determined too. You wish 
our marriage to be put off for another month. I 
will tell Mrs. Clyde so, and there is an end of it. ” 

Miriam sighed uneasily. She knew very well 
there would not be “ an end of it,” without great 
vexation of spirit and determined opposition on 
the part of Mrs. Clyde. But she saw, also, that if 
she had Sir James on her side, her mother could 
not absolutely force on the marriage; and so she 
yielded to his wish. 

“I will tell her to-day,” he said quietly. “Of 
course the time is for you to decide, and whatever 
time you fix I shall say then our marriage has to 
be.” 

“Thank you,” but as she spoke, Miriam felt a 
pang of shame in her heart. 

“ I should never have promised to marry him,” 


MIRIAM’S REQUEST. 


65 


she thought, with contrition, for she knew very 
well why she had consented to do so. To try to 
forget the past — to blot it out. And now again it 
stood before her, face to face ! 

“ I have brought you a necklace, dear,” presently 
said Sir James, and he drew a jewel-case from his 
pocket, and presented it to Miriam. “ I hope you 
will like it,” he added, as he pressed the spring. 

It was a beautiful necklace, and the shame in 
Miriam’s heart grew stronger as she glanced at 
the shining gems. 

“Oh! Sir James, you should not buy so many 
things for me,” she said; “you have given me so 
much.” 

“ I have given you much more than many neck- 
laces,” he answered, smiling; “something not to 
be bought.” 

“ I am not worth it all.” 

“You are worth everything to me, Miriam ; my 
life would be nothing to me without you.” 

“ Oh ! don’t say that; it is wrong to say that.” 

“ Is it, dear? Do you know I don’t think so? I 
think a man’s love for a good woman pulls him 
up, and — and makes him all the better.” 

As he walked by Miriam’s side, a vague longing 
came into his heart of the good he wonld try to do 
tor her sweet sake. 

“ You must help me,” he said, as if she had fol- 
lowed his thoughts. 

“ Help you to do what?” asked Miriam, who did 
not comprehend. 

“ Well, you women understand a lot more about 
5 


66 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


other people’s wants than men do; and when we 
are married, dear, I think we might do a heap of 
good, for we have so much, and many have so 
little.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Miriam, with another pang 
of shame. 

Presently, when he proposed to go to the Com- 
mandant’s house and tell Mrs. Clyde that they had 
settled to change the wedding-day, she could not 
help thinking how kindly and generous was his 
heart. 

“ If she asks me, I will stay to dinner,” he said, 
smiling, “ as I should not like to leave you with 
her if you think she will be angry.” 

“She is sure to be angry,” answered Miriam. 

“ Oh ! I hope not. I will try to talk her into a 
good humor.” 

But Sir James did not find his task so easy as 
he expected, when he went into Mrs. Clyde’s 
drawing-room, where that lady was drinking tea. 
Miriam ran upstairs to her own room, wishing 
“ it was over.” 

Mrs. Clyde held out her hand very graciously. 

“ What a pity you have missed Miriam ; she is 
out,” she said, smiling. 

“But I have not missed her,” answered Sir 
James; “I have just parted with her — and, Mrs. 
Clyde, I want to tell you something. We think, 
Miriam and I, that we would rather be married a 
little later than the time you fixed on when I was 
here last. We think ” 

“Sir James, may I ask if this change has arisen 


Miriam’s request. 67 

from your interview with Miriam to-day?” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Clyde gravely. 

“ We discussed it together,” answered Sir James 
loyally, “ and we both think that two months from 
this date will be better than one.” 

Mrs. Clyde slightly shrugged her shoulders, and 
her brow clouded. 

“ I fear the change will be impossible,” she said. 
“ I have unfortunately invited General Conray and 
his wife — my other daughter, you know — to be 
present at the ceremony at the earlier date, which 
I understood was quite settled. I do not like 
postponed marriages.” 

“ But, of course, if it is Miriam’s wish ” 

Again Mrs. Clyde slightly shrugged her shoul- 
ders. 

“Yes, I understand: it is Miriam’s wish, and 
she has persuaded you to propose this change to 
me.” 

Sir James’s face flushed. 

“ I should not think of urging her to marry me 
until she is quite ready and willing to do so,” he 
said quietly. “She wishes it to be later, and I 
needed no persuasion to agree to her wishes.” 

“ You are not a very impatient wooer, it seems. 
Sir James.” 

“ However impatient I was, I should think of 
Miriam first,” he answered hotly. 

“ And agree to the whim of a foolish girl with- 
out consulting her parents?” said Mrs. Clyde 
coldly. “ I do not know what Colonel Clyde will 
say to vsuch conduct. Sir James.” 


68 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I believe Colonel Clyde will see I am acting 
rightly; any man of honor would see it. Miriam 
has a perfect right to fix her own wedding-day.” 

“ Miriam has behaved very badly, I must say. 
She said nothing to me about all this. We talked 
of her trousseau and other arrangements, and now 
she has gone to you and tried to upset all our 
plans. Do not give in to such folly. Sir James. 
You only have to be a little firm, and it will be 
all right.” 

“I have promised Miriam, and I am not going 
back from my word, Mrs. Clyde,” said Sir James, 
in a decidedly firm tone. “ Miriam shall fix the 
time of her own wedding when she marries me.” 

“We shall see what her father says,” replied 
Mrs. Clyde, after a moment’s consideration. “ I 
do not think Colonel Clyde is a man who would 
allow his daughter’s good name to be trifled 
with.” 

“How can you say such a thing, Mrs. Clyde!” 
exclaimed Sir James, indignantly. 

“Well, I do think it is trifling with a young 
lady’s name. Sir James, when the gentleman she 
is engaged to Axes a day for her marriage, and 
allows her parents to invite guests to be present at 
that marriage, and then coolly postpones it! Put 
it in a common-sense way to your own mind. 
How should you like your sister, we will say, to 
be treated in such a fashion by any man?” 

“ I should not like my sister, if I had one, to be 
forced to marry a day before she wished, ” answered 
Sir James sturdily. 


Miriam’s request. 69 

“Well, I must consult Colonel Clyde, and then 
I shall write to you to tell you his decision.” 

“ If you like, I will wait to speak to Colonel 
Clyde to-day.” 

“Oh, there is not the least occasion to do so,” 
said Mrs. Clyde coldly, who had no idea of Sir 
James speaking to Colonel Clyde until she had 
prepared the way. “ Colonel Clyde will not dine 
at home to-day ; but I shall tell you what he says. ” 

She rose as she spoke, and very plainly inti- 
mated to Sir James that she wished him to go. 
But Sir James stood his ground with some courage. 

“ I should like to see Miriam before I leave,” he 
said. 

“ I think not to-day. Sir James. This had better 
be settled before you have any more interviews 
with her.” 

“ But it is settled,” said Sir James. 

“We shall see,” answered Mrs. Clyde, with a 
somewhat wintry smile, and she looked so plainly 
at the door that Sir James felt compelled to go. 

He was scarcely gone when Mrs. Clyde proceeded 
to Miriam’s room, more angry with her daughter 
than she had ever felt in her life. She used scant 
ceremony, opening the door without rapping, and 
walked in; and Miriam felt afraid when she saw 
the expression of her face. 

“ What does this all mean, Miriam?” she said. 

“ What, mother?” answered Miriam nervously. 

“ Do not prevaricate. You have persuaded 
Sir James, it seems, to assist 5^011 in disobeying 
your father and mother; you have induced him 


70 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


to come to me and propose to postpone your wed- 
ding-day.” 

Miriam was silent. 

“ I little thought a child of mine would act thus, ” 
continued Mrs. Clyde severely ; “ and you — know- 
ing as you do the story that might reach his ears 
any day — should have been wiser.” 

“It would have been better to have told him,” 
said Miriam desperately. 

“ To have told him what 2" answered Mrs. Clyde, 
fixing her dark eyes on her daughter’s face, who 
shrank visibly as she did so. “ Miriam, have you 
no prudence, no common sense? You are the last 
person who can afford to trifle with the good for- 
tune which came to you when vSir James asked you 
to be his wife.” 

“ I will marry him, mother, only not yet,” said 
Miriam, who was pale and trembling. “ Don’t ask 
me, I cannot — I told you so — I cannot, I cannot!” 

“ But why? Is there another mystery about this 
engagement also?” 

“ Mother, don’t drive me mad!” exclaimed Mir- 
iam passionately. “ I only ask for a few weeks’ 
delay. Sir James was very kind, far kinder than 
you are!” 

“Sir James is happily ignorant of the past, 
which I am not. Sir J ames knows nothing of ” 

“Mother, be silent! I cannot hear any more,” 
interrupted Miriam, so excitedly that Mrs. Clyde, 
firm and cold as she was, grew afraid. “ I have 
said I will marry him in two months; but I cannot 
before — I will not!” 


Miriam’s request. 


71 


“ I fear you will repent this, Miriam,” answered 
Mrs. Clyde, still looking at her daughter. She 
could not, indeed, understand this sudden change. 
Until the last few days Miriam had seemed fairly 
happy and satisfied with her engagement. Now 
to show such strange persistency in deferring her 
marriage half startled her mother, who began to 
think there must be some hidden cause for her 
conduct. 

“ If you are wise you will think better of this,” 
said Mrs. Clyde, though in a milder tone, for she 
saw plainly the poor girl was painfully agitated. 
“ I will leave you now. Do not, however, for- 
get what I have said, Miriam — do not forget 
the past!” and Mrs. Clyde turned and left the 
room. 

“Forget the past!” repeated Miriam excitedly, 
as the door closed behind her mother; “how can 
I ! how can I ! With Hugh lying there — so near — 
and I cannot see him. I dare not even ask how 
he is. But I must see him — see him again before 
we part forever!” 

She wrung her hands and paced up and down 
the room in terrible emotion. Meanwhile Mrs. 
Clyde was talking to her father gravely and un- 
easily about her. 

“I cannot understand her,” Mrs. Clyde was 
saying. “ For the last few days she has looked 
extremely ill, and now to induce Sir James to 
delay the marriage seems to me extraordinary. ” 

“Does she care for Sir James, do you think?” 
asked Colonel Clyde, turning round in his chair 


72 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


and facing his wife, for he was sitting at his 
writing-table when his wife entered the library. 

“She always seemed to like him,” answered 
Mrs. Clyde. 

“ But that other miserable affair — can she be 
thinking of that?” 

“ She accepted Sir James knowing all that, and 
as the unfortunate man has been dead eighteen 
months, there can be nothing new to her in the 
idea.” 

“ And nothing further was ever discovered about 
it, I suppose, or we should have heard from Joan 
or Conray?” 

“Joan never mentions it; naturally it is a pain- 
ful subject. As for Miriam, I believed she had 
entirely forgotten it, for I have never heard her 
mention young Conray ’s name.” 

“ It was a remarkable affair.” 

“Yes, an affair I should not like to reach Sir 
James’s ears. That is one reason I am so anxious 
not to have the marriage delayed. I told Miriam 
this, but she only became greatly excited, and 
persisted in her refusal not to be married in a 
month.” 

“Well, let a few days pass quietly over, and 
then we can see what is to be done. You are quite 
sure that Sir James is anxious for the marriage?” 

“ I am perfectly sure. He is devoted to her, 
and it is Miriam alone that is to blame for causing 
the delay.” 

“ And you think that I had better speak to her 
about it?” 


Miriam’s request. 


73 


“Yes, you may have more influence, more au- 
thority than I have. Miriam never disobeyed me 
before, surely she will not disobey her father.” 

“We can try, at all events,” said Colonel Clyde 
gravely. “ I agree with you ; to delay the mar- 
riage under the circumstances is madness. Shall 
I go and speak to her now?” 

“ Yes, do. Fancy how disagreeable it would be 
to have to write to the Conrays to tell them it was 
put off. Do, George dear, go, and insist upon her 
yielding.” 

Upon this Colonel Clyde proceeded slowly up- 
stairs to his young daughter’s room; having 
reached it, he rapped at the door and then opened 
it. 


CHAPTER VII. 


DARE, 

An exclamation of astonishment, almost of dis- 
may, burst from Colonel Clyde’s lips when his 
eyes fell on Miriam. She was kneeling by the 
bed sobbing passionately, in an utter abandon- 
ment of grief; but she started to her feet when 
she heard her father’s voice. 

“Miriam!” said Colonel Clyde. 

“I — I — am not very w^ell,” faltered Miriam, 
trying to hide her agitation. 

“ You seem very much upset, at least.” 

“I — have been upset,” answered Miriam, and 
her sobs burst out afresh as she spoke. 

“ Pray, try to compose yourself ; no possible 
good can come of exciting yourself thus. I have 
come to speak very seriously to you, Miriam, and 
I cannot do so unless you listen quietly.” 

“ I — will try, father,” answered Miriam, endeav- 
oring to suppress her sobs. 

“ It’s on the subject of your marriage; or rather 
the time of your marriage. Your mother tells me 
it was settled you were to.be married in a month, 
but that now you wish to postpone it for another 
month.” 

“ I never agreed, father, to be married in a 
74 


DARE. 


75 


month ; mother and Sir James settled it,” answered 
Miriam in her tear-choked voice ; “ and — and Sir 
James is willing to wait two months. It is only 
mother ” 

“ My dear, your mother has your truest good at 
heart, you may be sure. Neither she nor I like 
postponed marriages, and I wish you, and your 
mother wishes you, to be married at the earlier 
date. ” 

“Father, I cannot!” said Miriam, thus driven 
to bay. 

“ But why?” asked the Colonel. 

“Oh! please do not say anything more or ask 
anything more!” cried Miriam entreatingly. “I 
have said it all to mother, and — and she said some 
cruel things to me. I can’t bear much more, 
father. ” And again Miriam began to sob violently. 

Colonel Clyde was not so firm nor so hard as his 
wife, and he began to feel very sorry for his young 
daughter. Her unmistakable distress afflicted 
him ; but Mrs. Clyde had great infiuence over 
him, and he thought it behoved him to do his best 
to persuade Miriam to yield to her wishes. 

“ My dear, ” he said, “ please do not distress your- 
self thus. You must know that both your mother 
and myself are only acting for your good. There 
are reasons — grave reasons, as you know — why 
your marriage should not be deferred. Your 
mother has already invited your sister and her 
husband, and after the unfortunate event that 
occurred there ” 

“Oh' do not speak of it! — do not speak of it!” 


76 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


cried Miriam excitedly, covering her face with 
her hands. “ Is it not enough always to think of it, 
always to see it, without it being spoken of now?” 

Colonel Clyde was unmistakably shocked and 
startled by his daughter’s words. He thought, too, 
he now understood the reason of Miriam’s unwill- 
ingness to marry at the time her mother had set- 
tled, and he thought, also, that it would be wise to 
leave the poor girl alone. 

“ Well, do not excite yourself, or you will, be 
ill,” he said. “I will talk to your mother about 
it again, and for the present we had best say noth- 
ing more.” With these words, he left the room, 
and went downstairs, rejoining his wife with a 
very grave face. 

Mrs. Clyde looked eagerly at him as he entered 
the library. 

“ Have you seen her?” she asked. 

“ Yes, and, Miriam (Mrs. Clyde was also Miriam), 
I don’t like the child’s looks. She was crying 
bitterly when I went into her room, and got ex- 
ceedingly excited when I alluded to that unhappy 
affair about young Conray. I am afraid she must 
have been more attached to him than we supposed, 
for she said she was always thinking of it.” 

“ And yet she never spoke of it to me in her life. ” 

“ I fear she has thought of it, though. I do not 
think I should urge her any more about an im- 
mediate marriage. I think her mind is over- 
wrought at present, and that she ought to be kept 
quiet.” 

“ It is annoying and disappointing.” 


DARE. 


77 


“ No doubt it is. Well, we can see how she is in 
a day or two, and then, perhaps, she may be more 
reasonable.” 

Mrs. Clyde felt extremely annoyed and discon- 
certed; still more so at dinner-time, when Miriam 
sent down a message that she had a headache and 
could not appear. Ford brought down the mes- 
sage, and added: 

“Miss Miriam looks very ill, ma’am, and asked 
me just to take her up a cup of tea. She said she 
could not eat anything.” 

Miriam felt really ill. The strain and anxiety 
of the last few days had been too much for her. 
Though her mother was too angry with her to go 
up to inquire how she felt, yet when she did not 
appear on the following morning at breakfast she 
thought it her duty to do so, and was shocked 
when she saw her daughter’s face. 

It was white and drawn, b^it on both cheeks, 
especially on one, was an ominous scarlet flush, 
and her eyes also were heavy and blue-rimmed. 

“Miriam, are you not well?” asked Mrs. Clyde 
anxiously. 

“No, mother,” said Miriam, who was still in 
bed. • “ I have a bad headache; at least, my head 
seems so heavy, and I feel so strange.” 

Mrs. Clyde stretched out her cool white hand and 
took Mirim’s hot and burning one. 

“ My dear, you are feverish,” she said, now lay- 
ing her hand on Miriam’s aching, throbbing brow. 
“You must lie in bed, and I will send for the 
doctor.” 


78 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ It will pass off, I dare say, mother; only I feel 
so tired.” 

“ It is best to be on the safe side. I think you 
have taken a feverish cold.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“ I will send Ford up with some tea, and tell her 
to put your room straight. Now let me shake your 
pillow for you. There, is that better?” 

“Yes, thank you, mother.” 

Upon this Mrs. Clyde went downstairs and told 
her husband she was afraid Miriam was really ill. 

“ She looks feverish, and we must have a doctor 
at once. What a pity Dr. Wells is away on leave, 
as there is only Dr. Reed, and I scarcely like hav- 
ing an unmarried man for a girl ; but it cannot be 
helped.” 

“ Reed’s a very nice fellow, and a clever fellow, 
too. I’ll send Banks for him at once. I feel rather 
uneasy about Miriam,” answered Colonel Clyde, 
rising from the breakfast-table and ringing the 
bell. 

Dr. Reed was sent for, and arrived in about a 
quarter of an hour at the Commandant’s house. 
Mrs. Clyde received him in her usual gracious 
fashion. 

“ Pardon us for sending for you at such an early 
hour, and in such haste,” she said; “but I am 
sorry to say my daughter is ill. I think she has 
got a feverish col|). ” 

“ I am very sorry to hear that. I hope it will 
be nothing serious,” replied Dr. Reed. 

Mrs. Clyde took him upstairs to Miriam’s room. 


DARE. 


79 


and as he entered it Ford’s quick blue eyes per- 
ceived that the invalid’s face flushed painfully 
and her hands trembled. Ford therefore concluded 
that her former suspicions were correct, and that 
Miriam had a secret fancy for Dr. Reed. 

The doctor regarded Miriam curiously, as well 
as medically. It was not a cold, he said, but she 
was feverish, and he made as light of the attack 
as possible while he was in Miriam’s room ; but 
after he went downstairs again with Mrs. Clyde, 
he spoke of it more seriously. 

“ It is a nervous fever, or something like it,” he 
said. “ Has Miss Clyde had anything to agitate 
her lately?” 

Colonel Clyde looked at his wife anxiously as 
the doctor said this, but Mrs. Clyde answered 
glibly enough: 

“ Oh, no; she has never been quite well though, 
I think, since that affair on the sands when the 
soldier was shot. The strain on her nerves was 
too great, I suppose. By-the-bye, how is that 
poor man?” 

“Going on very well,” answered the doctor 
quietly, thinking all the while that he quite under- 
stood the reason for Miss Clyde’s nervous break- 
down. He, however, of course gave no hint of 
this, but ordered her to be kept perfectly 
quiet, and said he would see her again in the 
evening. 

“There — is no danger, I hope?” asked Colonel 
Clyde, nervously pulling at his gray mustache. 

“Oh, no; but these things sometimes run on; 


8o 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


and therefore nothing must be said before Miss 
Clyde to agitate her in any way.” 

Mrs. Clyde at this moment, in spite of her or- 
dinary calmness, felt decidedly uncomfortable, 
and Colonel Clyde was also uneasy. But neither 
parent spoke, and even after the doctor was gone 
very little was said. 

“You had best write to Joan, and tell her 
Miriam is ill, I think,” said the Colonel at length. 

“Yes, I think that will be best,” replied Mrs. 
Clyde. Meanwhile Dr. Reed was meditatively 
wending his way to the hospital, and presently 
was standing by the bedside of the wounded soldier 
Dare. 

Dare had improved rapidly, but was still weak, 
and the doctor, after making his usual, medical in- 
quiries, said with affected carelessness : 

“I have just been called in to see Miss Clyde.” 

In a moment Dare’s dark, handsome face grew 
a. dusky red. 

“She’s got a sort of nervous fever,” continued 
the doctor. 

“ I hope she is not very ill?” said Dare huskily. 

“Not dangerously, I trust.” 

“ And did she — but no ” 

“Ask after you?” said the doctor, with a smile, 
who guessed the man’s thoughts. “No, she had 
no opportunity, for her mother was in the room.” 

Dare moved uneasily, and his lips quivered be- 
neath his dark mustache. 

“ She is engaged to be married, you know,” con- 
tinued Dr. Reed, who was curious to see what 


DARE. 


8l 


effect his communication would have on Dare, who 
visibly started, and his hand lying outside of the 
coverlet clenched nervously. 

“ Yes,” went on the doctor; she is engaged to 
a cavalry man, a Sir James MacKennon. It’s a 
good match, they say, for her.” 

Still Dare did not speak. He had grown white 
to the very lips, and the doctor noticed that a cold 
dew broke out on his brow. The next minute, 
with a kind of gasping sigh, the soldier fainted. 

Dr. Reed, who was kind-hearted, if curious, now 
felt really concerned. He hastily tried to revive 
Dare, and applied his stethoscope to sound the 
action of the man’s heart. Presently, however. 
Dare regained consciousness; but a look of des- 
perate pain came into his eyes, and a great rest- 
lessness seemed to possess him. 

“ How long shall I have to lie here. Doctor?” 
he asked presently. 

“It doesn’t look like your being able to leave 
your bed soon, my man, when you turn faint like 
that,” answered the doctor. 

“I should be better up,” said Dare restlessly. 
“ I cannot lie thinking here.” 

He spoke as though his thoughts were an intol- 
erable burden, and Dr. Reed felt sorry for him. 

“ I will get you some books to amuse yourself 
- with,” he said kindly. “ That will help to make 
the time seem shorter. Are you fond of reading?” 

“ I once was,” answered Dare gloomily. 

“ I suppose that was before you were a soldier?” 

asked Dr. Reed. 

6 


82 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Dare hesitated. 

“Yes,” he said, after a moment’s thought. 

“Well, I’ll get you some books. I dare say 
Miss Clyde will lend me some for you.” 

Dr. Reed hazarded this remark, because his 
curiosity about the connection between Miss Clyde 
and the man was very great. But Dare instantly 
rejected the suggestion. 

”No, sir, I beg you will not ask her,” he said 
quickly. 

“ But why? She saved your life, or something 
very like it.” 

“ Would to God she had left me to die !" muttered 
Dare darkly. 

“ Come, you must not be so desponding as all 
that. Of one thing I am sure: Miss Clyde has a 
great interest in you, and I fancy you knew her 
when you were in a very different position to your 
present one.” 

Dare did not speak ; he moved uneasily, and a 
deep-drawn sigh escaped his lips. 

“ And it may be all nonsense about her mar- 
riage,” said the doctor smiling. 

A look of eager interest passed over Dare’s face. 

“And she i^ ill?” he said. 

“Yes, a sort of nervous break-down. I fancy 
she’s been terribly upset by something.” 

Again Dare sighed. 

“ Doctor ” he began, and then he paused, 

“ will you tell me — it is a great favor I am going 
to ask — but will you tell me how she is, day by 
day?” 


DARE. 


83 


“ Yes,” answered Dr. Reed slowly. “ That man 
has been her lover,” he was thinking; “ is in love 
with her still. Poor fellow, no doubt he was her 
equal once.” 

“I will send you some books of my own,” he 
said, and then he turned away, wondering what 
romance lay hidden beneath the soldier’s rough 
red coat. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


Miriam’s letter. 

Sir James MacKennon was greatly concerned 
when he heard of Miriam’s illness, though Mrs. 
Clyde made as light of it as possible. 

■ “ She has a bad, feverish cold, and has to remain 
in bed for a few days,” she told him, when he 
called expecting to see Miriam during the after- 
noon of the same day that Dr. Reed was called in 
to attend upon her. 

“I am very sorry — extremely sorry,” said Sir 
James uneasily. “I hope, Mrs. Clyde, that noth- 
ing has worried her?” 

“You mean, was I very angry with her for wish- 
ing to defer her marriage for a month?” an- 
swered Mrs. Clyde, smiling. “ Well, I was angry 
with her, and with you, too, Sir James, for giving 
way to her girlish ^olly. But Colonel Clyde was 
quite delighted, I believe, at the chance of hav- 
ing his daughter a month longer with him, and by 
no means took my advice on the subject,” and 
again Mrs. Clyde smiled. 

Mrs. Clyde said this because she believed now 
that Miriam was not well enough, at present, to 
be lectured any more on the subject of her mar- 
riage. 


Miriam’s letter. 


85 


“ Let the child get well before you say anything 
more to her,” Colonel Clyde had said to his wife 
after the doctor’s visit. “You see, Reed says she 
must not be excited, and she certainly was very 
much excited when I saw her.” 

Thus Mrs. Clyde was forced to yield, and like a 
wise woman she made the best of it. But Sir 
James felt uneasy as to the real cause of Miriam’s 
illness. When he returned to Helstone he dis- 
patched the best flowers he could And to her, and 
wrote for some to be sent from Town. He also 
sent fruit and game, and when his offerings ar- 
rived at the Commandant’s house on the follow- 
ing day Mrs. Clyde took them up (the flowers and 
fruit) to her daughter’s room with a smile. 

“ See what it is to be engaged to a rich and 
generous man,” she said pleasantly. “Are not 
the flowers lovely? And the fruit is splendid!” 

“It is very kind of him,” answered Miriam 
gently, and she suppressed a sigh. 

“ He is a nice fellow, and, as I have often told 
you, you are a lucky girl. Well, I think you look 
a little better to-day, my dear, and so I hope in a 
few days you will be able to thank Sir James him- 
self for all his kindness.” 

But Dr. Reed still considered Miriam feverish, 
and impressed upon her mother that she was to be 
kept very quiet. It chanced while the doctor was 
in Miriam’s room that Mrs. Clyde was called 
downstairs on some household business which 
could not be delayed. 

“Will you excuse me? I will return in a mo- 


86 


THE^tAST SIGNAL. 


merit or two,”'^^e* said to the doctor. “Miriam, 
my dear, I will send Ford up to you with your 
beef tea,” for Mrs. Clyde considered Dr. Reed too 
young a man to be left alone with her daughter. 

But for a moment or two they were alone, and 
then, with a sudden blush ' and in -a tremulous 
voice, Miriam inquired after the wounded soldier. 

“ How is the — the soldier — who was shot. Dr. 
Reed?” she said. 

“ He is getting on very well, though he had a 
sort of fainting fit yesterday,” answered Dr. Reed, 
interested. 

“A fainting fit?” echoed Miriam, and her color 
paled. 

“ Oh, nothing very serious. I told him you 
were ill, which seemed to distress him very much.” 

“Poor fellow!” murmured Miriam in a low 
tone. “Doctor,” she said the next moment in a 
more earnest voice, “ when will he be well enough 
to go out; to — to leave the hospital?” 

“ It will be a week or rnore yet, I am afraid.” 

“A week or more,” repeated Miriam thought- 
fully. 

“ Yes, I think so; but I dare say he may get out 
into the open air before that.” 

At this moment Ford appeared with the beef- 
tea; but being a discreet maiden, and seeing that 
her young mistress and Dr. Reed were apparently 
in earnest conversation, she merely put the beef- 
tea on d small table standing by Miriam’s bed, and 
then said, with one of her beguiling smiles, and 
with a glance of her blue eyes at the doctor : 


MIRIAM’S LETTER. 87 

“ Perhaps Dr. Reed would kindly ring the bell^, 
Miss Miriam, when you want me?” 

“ Very well,” answered Miriam, whose mind was 
too much occupied by other things to notice Ford’s 
little by-play, and Ford accordingly vanished. 

“ I feel sorry, you Tcnow; Miss Clyde, for Dare,” 
continued Dr. Reed, as Ford disappeared. He’s 
been born a gentleman, I am certain; every atti- 
tude tells you that; and the poor fellow seems so 
restless and unhappy.” 

Miriam did not speak. She was afraid to speak, 
but her bosom heaved, and her hands trembled* 
with emotion. 

“ I have lent him some books, and he seems very 
grateful for any kindness,” went on the doctor. 

“ Has — has he everything?” asked Miriam, with 
downcast eyes and faltering lips. “ I mean — 
everything he requires?” 

“ In a rough way, yes ; but, of course ” 

“Doctor,” interrupted Miriam, as Dr. Reed 
paused ; “ I — I trusted you when I sent the few 
words I wrote to him,- and I am going to trust you 
again. Will you gebhim everythii^'he wants, and 
I will pay for it? I— I knew him long ago — knew 
about him, and— and-=^though no one must know 
that I ever saw him'^'before, please remember — 
no one, Doctor — still I cannot forget. 

Miriam was greatly ^agitated as she said this, 
and the young doctor took her trembling hand in 
kindly fashion. 

“ You must not agitate yourself,” he said; “and 
you may entirely trust me. I knew, of course, 


88 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


that you must have known him before, when he 
asked me to carry that little note to you after the 
accident. As for anything he requires he shall 
have it, though, of course, it is all nonsense about 
your paying for it. I’ve only got to order it.” 

“Oh! but I should like to do something,” said 
poor Miriam eagerly. “ It’s dreadful to me to 

think of him lying there when — when I know ” 

And she covered her face with her hand. 

“You know his history, of course?” 

“Yes; but no one must suspect this. Dr. Reed. 

,For his sake — for mine — no one must know.” 

“ Well, no one shall know from me.” 

“ Thank you. I do not know how to thank you 
enough. And there is another thing I want to 
ask : If it were necessary that I should write a few 
lines to him, how should I address him?” 

“You mean his name? I presume Dare is an 
assumed one?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Private Dare, and the name of his regiment, 
would reach him. But if you mean to write to 
him in the hospital, you had better direct it to the 
hospital, or under cover to me.” 

“You are very good. I — I shall want to write 
a few words to him — but not just yet; not till he 
is better.” 

“ I will let you know how he goes on ; and may 
I tell him what you have said?” 

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Miriam, as if fright- 
ened. “ I am so afraid that any one might hear — 
that any one might suspect. O Dr. Reed, my 


Miriam’s letter. 89 

position is so difficult! I cannot even tell you all 
— can tell no one ; and yet I trust you. ” 

“ You have told me enough to make me very 
sorry for you both. And if there is anything I 
can do to help you, please ask me.” 

“ I am very grateful. Tell him that — that ” 

“I will change this mixture, I think,” said the 
doctor, suddenly assuming his professional tone 
and manner, and taking up a medicine bottle 
standing on the table — for his quick ears had 
caught the sound of Mrs. Clyde’s returning foot- 
steps. The next moment she opened the door 
and entered the room. “ I was just saying to Miss 
Clyde,” he continued, “ that I will change her med- 
icine to-day, and she must promise to take the new 
mixture three times a day.” 

“I will see to that,” said Mrs. Clyde with a 
smile. “ But how is this, my dear? You have 
not taken your beef-tea, and it has got almost 
cold.” 

“ I like it best cold, mother, I think,” said Mir- 
iam with embarrassment. 

I “Oh! well, it can be heated again, if it is too 
cold. Are these grapes not splendid. Dr. Reed?” 
continued Mrs. Clyde, pointing to a basket of 
beautiful grapes which had been sent by Sir James 
MacKennon. “As I tell Miriam,, she is a lucky 
girl to have such presents sent to her.” 

“They are very fine grapes, indeed,” answered 
Dr. Reed. 

“Do have some. Doctor,” said Miriam, with a 
quick and sudden blush, which her mother noticed. 


90 


THE LAST SIGNAI^*" 

He took one or two, and saw by the wistful look 
in Miriam’s soft, dark eyes that she was thihking 
of some one else — of the poor fellow lying in the 
hospital without luxuries of any kind. At least, 
so he understood the pathetic glance — pathetic and 
trustful, and the young doctor felt very much in- 
clined at this moment to fall in love with her him- 
self. 

But Mrs. Clyde took good care that during the 
next few days Miriam had no more private inter- 
views with Dr. Reed. She was always by her 
daughter’s side, and Miriam therefore heard noth- 
ing more of the wounded soldier. Then she was 
allowed to go downstairs once more; and Sir 
James came, full of joy at her recovery, and full 
of happiness at seeing her again. 

Miriam, pale, fair, and delicate, sat with her 
hand clasped in her lover’s,, listening sadly to 
his words of tenderness and love. It was un- 
just to him, she told herself — unjust to his honest, 
noble heart to deceive him as she was forced 
to do. 

“Oh! if I could only tell him all,’’ she some- 
times would murmur to herself after these inter- 
views. “ But I cannot — I dare not. No one must 
ever know.’’ 

And so time passed on. Miriam had been ill 
upstairs more than a week, and then another week 
glided away before she saw Sir James, but was 
still considered an invalid. Three weeks, indeed, 
elapsed, and it only wanted one week to the time 
which Mrs. Clyde had originally fixed on as Mir- 


MIRIAM’s^LETTERr 9 1 

iam’s wedding- day, and-but‘ five weeks to the time 
when Miriam had finally consented to be married. 
Therefore Mrs. Clyde felt that it behoved her once 
more to bestir herself. 

She had written to her daughter, Mrs. Conray, 
to tell her the wedding had been deferred a month 
on account of Miriam’s illness, and had invited 
the General and Joan again to be present at the 
ceremony. To this letter Mrs. Conray replied ac- 
cepting her mother’s invitation, and regretting 
greatly to hear that Miriam was ill. And she 
wrote also to Miriam — a guarded though affec- 
tionate letter, and this letter Miriam read with a 
weary sigh. 

“ Poor Joan! poor Joan! She has cost me very 
dear, ” she was thinking, as she held her sister’s 
letter in her hand. Mrs. Clyde asked to see the 
letter, and thought it was very nice, though some- 
what lachrymose. 

“ That is the worst of Joan,” she said to Miriam, 
smiling; “she always looks on the dark side of 
everything. From her letter any one would think 
you had been dangerously ill.” 

“Yes,” said Miriam absently. 

“ I wonder what she will wear at the wedding?” 
continued Mrs. Clyde. “I think, Miriam, we 
ought not put off going to Town longer than we 
can help now. We must begin to prepare quite a 
month before the time.” 

Miriam did not speak. 

“ It just wants -five weeks to-day to your wed- 
ding-day, and I’ ve" written for various patterns. I 


92 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


wrote yesterday, and I expect they will arrive to- 
morrow. ” 

Miriam, to Mrs. Clyde’s great annoyance, did 
not look interested. She sat with eyes cast down 
and hands clasped, and when her mother left her, 
with a certain uneasiness at heart she could not 
suppress, again Miriam sighed wearily. 

“Five weeks!” she reflected, thinking of her 
mother’s words; “ just five weeks. Then he must 
know. I must warn him, cost what it may.” 

She went upstairs to her bedroom after this, and 
having locked the door, she sat down to w^rite a 
letter in haste and secrecy. 

“ Hugh, dear Hugh : — I must see you. Are you 
well enough to see me now? I am going away from 
here soon, and I must see you before I go. If you 
are well enough, will you go out to-morrow night on 
the west rampart at the back of our house about 
eleven o’clock? I will use the old signal if I am able to 
come, and at eleven o’clock will place a lighted 
candle in my bedroom window, which is at the back 
of the house. If this light is extinguished, you will 
know it is impossible for me to see you that night ; 
but come the next, if this is so. I will inclose this to 
Dr. Reed. If you ask him I am sure he will give you 
leave to go out; and when you reply to this, address 
it to my maid. Ford. If you are able and well enough 
to meet me, just write ‘I will be there,’ and I shall 
understand. If you are not well enough, write ‘Not 
well enough.’ But I must see you before I go. M.” 

This letter she inclosed in one to Dr. Reed, and 
addressed it to Private Dare, and added also the 


MIRIAM S LETTER. 


93 


name of his regiment. Then, in a few guarded 
words, she asked Dr. Reed to deliver it, and 
thanked him for all his kindness. She sealed the 
letter to Dr. Reed, and then was again compelled 
to intrust her letter to Ford. She therefore rang 
for her, and Ford soon appeared in her usual 
sprightly fashion. 

“ Ford, I want you to post another letter for 
me,” she said nervously. 

“To Dr. Reed?” smiled Ford. 

“Yes,” answered Miriam with a sudden blush, 
“and — and — Ford, when the answer comes it will 
be addressed to you, and will you bring it to me 
quietly and at once?” 

“Of course. Miss Miriam,” said Ford demurely. 

Intrigue was dear to the soul of Ford, but still 
that wily damsel considered it was not quite pru- 
dent of Miss Miriam to be writing to the doctor 
when she (Ford) had iust been discussing the fu- 
ture Lady MacKennon’s wedding-dress with Mrs. 
Clyde. It was “too committing,” Ford thought; 
but still it was Miss Miriam’s affair, not hers, 
and it would certainly give her (Ford) a certain 
influence and power over the future Lady Mac- 
Kennon. 

“And I have to bring the answer to you. Miss 
Miriam?” she said, after a moment’s consider- 
ation. “ But how shall I know the letter?” 

“ Do you get many?” asked Miriam. 

“ I do get letters sometimes.” 

“ Let me see the addresses of those you get dur- 
ing the next few days, and — and I will know the 


94 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


handwriting on the one that is for me,” said 
Miriam. 

“Yes, that will be best. Oh, yes! I can quite 
manage that, and if 3^ou will give me the letter 
you want posted now. Miss Miriam, I’ll just slip 
out with it while you are at dinner, as I did the 
last time.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Miriam, and the 
letter was at once transferred to Ford’s handy 
pocket ; but Miriam was so nervous and restless 
during the remainder of the day that more than 
once Mrs. Clyde looked at her with some anxiety. 

Ford duly posted the letter, and it was delivered 
to Dr. Reed on the following morning, who car- 
ried it with him to the hospital, and placed the 
inclosure for Dare in his hand. The soldier, who 
was up, slightly started and bit his lips as he rec- 
ognized the handwriting. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” he said as he opened the en- 
velope, and the doctor turned away to allow him 
to read the letter in private. But when he glanced 
at him again he saw that Dare was greatly agi- 
tated. His face had paled and his hands trembled, 
and he was nervously gnawing his under-lip be- 
neath the heavy mustache that shaded it. 

“Sir,” he began, addressing the doctor, “would 
you give me leave to quit the hospital to-day?” 

“To-day?” repeated Dr. Reed in surprise. 

“ Yes, to-day. I want to be out for a short 
time, to-night, but late-^ — ” 

“What do you call late?” 

“ From eleven to twelve.” 


MIRIAM’S LETTER. 


95 


The doctor stared at him almost incredulously. 

“ And do you mean to say that the young lady 
wishes this?” 

“ I cannot tell you, sir; please do not ask me — 
but, but — the young lady says in this letter that if 
I am well enough she is sure that you will give me 
leave to go out. ” 

“At eleven o’clock at night? You are well 
enough, I dare say; but I wish some trouble may 
not come to the young lady about this. ” 

“ God knows, trouble enough has come to her 
already!” said Dare impetuously. “Oh! do give 
me leave, sir. There are strong reasons, I am 
sure, that I should go.” 

The doctor was silent for a moment or two, 
then he said slowly : 

“ Well, I will give you leave ; but you had better 
make some excuse.” 

“Very well, sir, and thank you very much. 
This must all seem very strange to you, doctor, 
but — I cannot explain it. ” 

“Of course you cannot. You knew the young 
lady in different circumstances, and she is gene- 
rous enough not to forget this. But you must be 
very careful — for her sake. ” 

“ I will try to be, sir. ” 

The doctor then gave Dare leave to quit the 
hospital, and left whistling softly to himself. 

“ Poor Sir James MacKennon !” he was thinking, 
as he had thought before; “ Poor Sir James!” 

He began to think also, could Miriam Clyde in- 
tend to elope with this soldier? That they had 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


96 

been and were lovers he was sure ; but if she were 
going out at eleven o’clock at night to meet him, 
and if she intended to marry Sir James MacKen- 
non, it was incredible folly. Dr. Reed finally 
came to the conclusion that she did not intend to 
marry Sir James, but to run away with Private 
Dare! 

“ Mrs. Clyde will go mad — absolutely mad,” he 
reflected; “but I’ll never believe that a modest 
girl, a proud girl, like Miriam Clyde, would go 
out at night to meet one man if she meant to 
marry another.” 

Dare in the mean time had written the few lines 
that Miriam had asked him to write if he were 
able to keep the tryst, and addressed them to Miss 
Ford, at the Commandant’s house. 

“I will be there,” he wrote, and nothing 
more.” 

These lines he posted, but they were not deliv- 
ered at Colonel Clyde’s house until five o’clock in 
the day. Meanwhile, Miriam spent hours of rest- 
less anxiety, and Ford was on the tip toe of ex- 
pectation and excitement. Every time the front 
door bell rang she rushed to see who it was, and 
she filled the heart of Banks, the soldier-servant, 
with delusive hopes, as he imagined, poor fellow, 
she was running after him. 

At last she was rewarded, and Banks placed 
Dare’s letter jealously in her hand. 

“Here’s a letter for you. Miss Ford,” he said, 
glancing suspiciously at the gentlemanly looking 
handwriting in which it was directed. 


Miriam’s letter. 


97 


“Oh! thank you!” cried Ford delighted. “I 
see it’s from my brother.” 

“You seem to have a good few relations, ” re- 
plied Banks, still suspiciously. 

“Yes, the poor boys often write to me,” said 
Ford, with a smile and an innocent look in her 
blue eyes. Then she ran upstairs, with her letter 
in her pocket, straight to Miriam’s room, who was 
waiting there pale and anxious. 

“Miss Miriam, I think it’s come,” said Ford, 
after she had earefully elosed the bedroom door, 
and she then drew Dare’s letter from the pocket of 
her dress, and gave it to Miriam. 

“Yes,” said Miriam excitedly, as she opened it 
and read the words it contained; “yes, and he 
will be there. Ford, Ford, you must help me 
now!” 


7 


CHAPTER IX. 


ONCE MORE. 

Miriam scarcely knew how she spent the rest of 
the day after she had received Dare’s brief letter. 
Her mind was in a whirl of excitement, of fear, 
and also of strange joy. She was going to see 
him again — Hugh — see him in secrecy and dan- 
ger, but still to clasp his hand, to be near him 
once more. 

She had named a late hour for this meeting, be- 
cause she knew by eleven o’clock her father and 
mother were almost sure to have retired for the 
night. Colonel Clyde was a very methodical man, 
and when the family were alone he made it a 
practice to see that all the doors of the house were 
locked by half-past ten o’clock, and at eleven 
every one was at rest in the Commandant’s 
house. 

The keys were left in the locks for Banks to 
open the doors in the morning, and, with the as- 
sistance of Ford, Miriam meant to open the back 
door, go through the garden, and thus reach the 
west rampart, where she expected to find Dare. 

It was a dangerous escapade, and to do Ford 
justice, when she heard the lateness of the hour 
that Miriam intended to meet (she believed) Doc- 
98 


ONCE MORE. 


99 


tor Reed, she said a warning word to her 3^oung 
mistress. 

“O Miss Miriam; it’s not for me to speak, but 
couldn’t you fix to meet the doctor some time in 
the day?” 

“ The doctor?” repeated Miriam, in surprise. 

“Yes — Doctor Reed. I am sure it would be 
safer; because, even if you were seen, it would 
not be very strange; but you see going out at 
night ” 

Then Miriam understood; she had never said 
who it was that she was going out to meet, and 
Ford had naturally thought it was Doctor Reed 
because she had written to him twice. “ It 
is better she should think it is Doctor Reed,” 
reflected Miriam ; “ better any one than the 
truth.” 

“I cannot go in the day-time, Ford,” she an- 
swered, “ I must go to-night at eleven ; so will you 
help me?” 

“I will do everything I can, Miss Miriam; but 
still it would be such a pity if Sir James were to 
hear.” 

You see. Ford was prudent withal in spite of 
her coquettishness. She thought to lose the chance 
of marrying a baronet for the sake of a doctor 
was carrying a love of admiration, or love itself, . 
too far. She wished Miriam to become Lady 
MacKennon, and she thought it rash, therefore, 
to run such a risk. 

“Sir James will not hear, ’’said Miriam excit- 
edly, “ and even if he did, I must go. ” 


lOO 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Very well, Miss Miriam ; if you are determined 
to go, we must try and arrange so that 710 one 
shall ever know anything about it but the doctor 
and our two selves.” 

“ Yes.” 

They talked over various plans, and finally set- 
tled that they were to steal down the staircase to. 
gether after the rest of the family had retired to 
bed, and that Ford was to open the back door, let 
out her young mistress, and wait inside the door 
until Miriam’s return. 

“ If we are caught!” said Ford, in a half fright- 
ened tone. 

Miriam did not speak. 

“Fancy! what would Mrs. Clyde say?” con- 
tinued Ford. “ My very teeth chatter when I 
think of it.” 

“ She will not know. It is well you have a lit- 
tle room of your own. Ford, or the other servants 
might have missed you?” 

“Yes, Miss Miriam, and Jane, the new house- 
maid, is that spiteful ! I think she wants Banks 
to run after her ; but, poor fellow ” 

But Miriam was too excited, too impatient, to 
listen to the details of Ford’s conquests. She 
moved about the room restlessly, and Ford took 
the hint. Presently she dressed for dinner, though 
it was two hours before the time. She wished to 
occupy herself — to be doing something; not to 
think. But she thought in spite of herself; 
thought of the man she was about to meet — of 
Hugh Ferrars, now called Dare — and of the terri- 


ONCE MORE. 


lOI 


ble circumstances which had* necessitated his 
change of name. 

The dinner-hour came at last, and Miriam had 
to face her mother’s keen eyes. There was an 
unusual flush on Miriam’s cheeks, Mrs. Clyde no- 
ticed, and the girl looked absolutely beautiful. 
The suppressed excitement within made her eyes 
sparkle brightly, and Mrs. Clyde wished that Sir 
James had been there to look upon her face. Mir- 
iam, however, we may be sure, was thankful that 
Sir James was not there. She would have felt 
guilty in his kindly presence. 

Mrs. Clyde talked as usual in her agreeable 
fashion, and the Colonel and Miriam answered. 
There was nothing unusual said by any one, and 
presently Mrs. Clyde and Miriam retired to the 
drawing-room. The Colonel remained in the din- 
ing-room with his newspaper and cigar. 

When they were alone, Mrs. Clyde naturally 
spoke to her daughter about the dresses she would 
require for her marriage. But Miriam showed 
none of the interest and excitement on the subject 
which young women generally do. She agreed 
with what her mother suggested in so indifferent 
a tone that Mrs. Clyde felt aggrieved. But she 
did not show this. Miriam’s illness had some- 
what alarmed her, and she thought it wiser to be 
very soothing and considerate. 

Coffee was brought in by Banks, the Colonel re- 
appeared, and the evening passed away very 
quietly. A few moments before half-past ten 
o’clock, the Colonel looked at his watch, yawned, 


102 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


then rose and left the room to lock up. This 
nightly duty performed, he returned to the draw- 
ing-room, and said “good-night” to his daughter, 
who lightly -kissed him on the forehead, and 
kissed her mother. Then Miriam left the room, 
and Colonel and Mrs. Clyde were alone. 

“Miriam looked very handsome to-night,” said 
Mrs. Clyde reflectively. 

“Yes,” replied the Colonel, also reflectively. 

“I wish her marriage was over now; it would 
be much better.” 

“Yes,” again said the Colonel; and he added, 
“Well, it soon will be.” 

While her parents were thus speaking of her, 
Miriam had gone quickly to her own room, where 
she found Ford waiting in the dark. 

“ I brought no light. Miss Miriam, for fear of 
any mistake,” she whispered. 

“That is right; now draw up the blind, and I 
will place the candle close to the panes — it is 
nearly time,” said Miriam, also in an excited 
whisper. 

It wanted just a quarter to eleven, Miriam saw 
by her little jewelled watch which was lying on 
the dressing-table, one of Sir James’s many gifts. 
Only a quarter to eleven ! The girl’s breath came 
quickly, her cheeks flushed, and her hands trem- 
bled. It was so near what she longed for and yet 
feared, and a tremulous sigh escaped her parted 
lips. 

“Are you frightened, Miss Miriam?” asked 
Ford, in a low tone. 


ONCE MORE. 


103 


“ Yes,” murmured Miriam; “but I must go.” 

At this moment they heard Colonel and Mrs. 
Clyde ascending the staircase on their way to their 
bedroom, and a moment later the door was shut. 

“Well, I hope they are safe, at any rate,” 
whispered Ford. 

“We will just wait until it is eleven, and then 
we must creep downstairs,” said Miriam. “You 
had better go first. Ford, and I will follow in a 
minute or two.” 

They accordingly waited until the dial of the 
little jewelled watch told the appointed hour. 
Then Ford silently, and on tiptoe, left the room, 
and Miriam listened in agony lest the stairs should 
creak. No, the little handmaiden’s light footfall 
made no sound. Miriam lightly followed, and 
found Ford waiting for her in the dark at the foot 
of the staircase. They did not even whisper to 
each other, but hand in hand stole silently through 
the dark passages, with which Ford was very fa- 
miliar, and soon found themselves at the back door 
of the house. 

Ford had provided herself with a small bottle 
of oil, to grease the key of the door, if they should 
find it rusty. She did not require this, but softly 
turned the key in the lock, and quietly ope-ned the 
door. The cold night air at once instantly rushed 
in. 

“ I will go at once,” whispered Miriam. “ Stay 
behind the door. Ford, and keep it closed until I 
return.” The next moment she had passed out 
into the darkness. 


104 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


It was a starlight night, frosty and keen, and a 
half-moon was shedding a faint glimmer on the 
scene as Miriam passed swiftly on. A somewhat 
neglected garden, for the season was late, lay at 
the back of the Commandant’s house, and through 
this Miriam passed swiftly, until she came to the 
railings that inclosed it; and as she did so she 
drew nearer and nearer to the sea. The Com- 
mandant’s house stood on what in Newbrough- 
on-the-Sea was called the West Rampart, below 
which the waves broke on the rocky cliffs. Earth- 
works with embrasures, in which heavy guns 
were mounted, guarded the steep and dangerous 
coast. 

Between the earthworks and the Commandant’s 
garden there was a roadway, and Miriam having 
opened the garden-gate found herself on this. 
Then she paused, and looked timidly round. As 
she did so a figure seemed to glide out of the semi- 
darkness — a figure wrapped in a soldier’s cloak 
— and a moment later she heard her name. 

“ Miriam?” 

“Yes; O Hugh, dear Hugh!” she whispered, 
holding out both her hands. 

The man she called “ Hugh” took them, gazed 
down into her face with eager eyes, and then drew 
her passionately to his breast and kissed her lips. 

“Once more!” he murmured; “ once more, Mir- 
iam.” 

She made no attempt to draw herself from his 
arms; no attempt to turn her face away from his 
kisses. She raised her dark eyes to his, full of 


ONCE MORE. 105 

love and pain, and for some moments neither of 
them spoke another word. 

“ It is good of you to come,” at last said Hugh 
Ferrars. “ More than I ever hoped for.” 

“I came to warn you, Hugh,” answered Mir- 
iam, still in his arms. 

“To warn me?” he asked. 

“Yes, Hugh, you must go from here; go at any 
cost. In a few weeks General Conray will be 
coming here,” and Miriam shivered. “You must 
not be here when he comes.” 

“ Where can I go? How can I go?” answered 
Hugh Ferrars, with a sudden bitterness in histone. 

“You must buy your discharge, Hugh, and leave 
the country. Nothing else is safe. I — I — nearly 
died when I saw you here.” 

“ It was no choice of mine ; and but for that ac- 
cident on the sands you should never have seen 
me. When I enlisted I expected the regiment 
was going to India, and I had either to enlist or 
blow out my brains.” 

“Hush! hush! dear Hugh,” and she clung to 
him fondly. “ Do not make things worse; do not 
make them more miserable than they are by talk- 
ing thus. But you must not run the risk of see- 
ing General Conray.” 

“ Did he suspect me then?” 

“He told Joan he suspected you. O Hugh, 
what I have gone through — God only knows what 
I have gone through!” Miriam’s head fell upon 
his breast; tears rushed into her eyes, and one 
fell upon his hand. 


io6 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“Dear, dear Miriam/’ he said, drawing her 
closer; “it was hard on you — too hard, too cruel.” 

“ I have tried to bear it,” wept Miriam; “tried 
for your sake — for Joan’s sake; but it has been 
very bitter, very terrible.” 

“I was a cursed fool ever to suspect you,” said 
Hugh Ferrars darkly. “ But Mrs. Conray held 
herself so high I never dreamed of such a thing. 
And I was mad with rage; mad to think you were 
false, and he doubly false.” 

“Oh! do not speak of it, ” and again Miriam 
shivered. “ But, Hugh, you must go away from 
here. I will find the money to buy your discharge, 
and you must go out of England. Go to Australia 
— anywhere; but it is not safe for you to be here. 
I knew you again in a moment, and others might 
know you too. I will give you the money, how- 
ever much it may cost.”’ 

The man drew himself away from her with a 
sudden gesture. 

“How will you do that, Miriam?” he asked 
coldly. 

“ I know — some one who will lend it to me,” she 
answered, after a moment’s hesitation. 

“ I will not take Sir James MacKennon’s money, 
Miriam,” said Hugh; “if you mean him. They 
may hang me before I do that! Is it true you 
are going to marry him?” 

Miriam did not speak ; her head fell lower. 

“ Is it true?” asked Hugh Ferrars hotly. 

“Yes,” came faltering from the girl’s unwilling 
lips. 


ONCE MORE. 


107 


“Yet you can come out to meet me here; can 
seem to love me still!” 

“Hugh, do not reproach me; I had no choice. 

I never thought I should see you again — never, 
never! And — and my mother urged me — and he 
is very good and kind — and we could never marry. ” 

“No,” said Hugh Ferrars bitterly; “that is 
true. For love of you I have wrecked my life; 
but you, seemingly, have not wrecked yours for 
love of me.” 

“What could I do? I dare not ask about you; 
I tried not to think of you — but — I always did, 
Hugh!” and she passionately caught his hand. 
“ Day and night, always, your face has been be- 
fore me — always that dreadful night ” 

“Curse it! Curse my madness!” muttered 
Hugh Ferrars darkly. 

“O Hugh, it was so dreadful! And Joan’s 
misery ! She has never been the same — it has been 
like a black cloud over her.” 

“ It was her sin and folly did it all ; I have no 
pity for her — only for you — and ” 

“ It was terrible! I — I took the blame. I said 
I was with him — but you know?” 

“ Yes, and I go about the world with this dark 
memory ever on my soul. Miriam, it was what I 
supposed his utter falseness to me that maddened 
me; for he knew you were all the world to me, 
and yet he never gave me one hint.” 

“He could not in honor,” said Miriam, in a 
low tone. 

“ His honor has cost us both very dear, then. 


io8 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


He died for it, and I live a living death — but it 
may not be for long.” 

“ Oh ! do not say so. Hugh, for my sake — for 
the sake of our old love — take the money I will 
get, and go away.” 

“ I am not fallen quite so low as that, Miriam,” 
and he drew himself up to his full height as he 
spoke. 

He was handsome, with a tall, slim, lithe form, 
and he looked a man of strong, passionate feelings. 
He was this girl’s first lover, who stood there look- 
ing up at him in the semi-darkness, with her 
heart full of memories and pain. They had loved 
each other, this young pair, in Miriam’s dawning 
womanhood — when the world had been all bright 
to them, made brighter by their secret love — until 
a dark tragedy had swept between them, parting 
their lives — Miriam had believed forever. 

But now, standing there in the starlight, it 
seemed to her this could not be. Wild thoughts 
and hopes rushed into her mind. Should she sac- 
rifice everything — go with him into exile — die 
with him, if need be? She crept closer to him, 
she laid her hand upon his arm. 

“ Hugh,” she whispered, “ do you still love me?” 

“Yes,” he answered gloomily, “though it does 
not matter much.” 

Something in his tone repelled her, and she 
drew back. 

“It cannot matter to you,” he went on, the 
jealousy in his heart prompting his scathing words ; 
“to you — the future bride of Sir James MacKen- 


ONCE MORE. 109 

non — whether the man whose life was wrecked 
through you still clings to his old folly.” 

“O Hugh, is that just?” answered Miriam, and 
her tears fell fast. “ I, at least, was not to blame. 
I have suffered so much ” 

Her words and tears seemed to soften his mood, 
and he once more drew her to his breast. 

“Forgive me,” he said, more gently. “My 
heart is very sore, Miriam. Poor little girl — poor 
little girl!” 

She bowed her head, weeping silently for a 
few minutes ; but he felt her form quivering in his 
arms. 

“Do not cry, Miriam,” he said presently; “I 
spoke brutally^ — but I cannot bear to think ” 

As he said this he suddenly paused and listened, 
for a distant footstep had sounded through the 
still night. 

“Hush!” he said; “do you hear? It is the 
sentry; he is coming this way — he must not find 
you here.” 

“No,” said Miriam, in a frightened whisper, 
clinging to him closer. 

“ Let us. creep into that embrasure; he will not 
see us if we crouch beside the gun,” answered 
Hugh Ferrars, pulling Miriam into the shadow 
cast by the earthworks, lifting her a moment later 
into the embrasure, and holding her there in his 
arms as they both knelt beside the gun. 

The sentry drew nearer and nearer, whistling 
softly as he came. Just when he was opposite the 
embrasure where the two crouched in each other’s 


I TO 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


arms, the sentry stopped, and Miriam’s heart 
seemed to stop with terror too. 

He was close to them, and with bated breath 
they watched the dark outline of his form. Then 
he yawned loudly, stretched out his arm, and 
walked on. 

“You must go,” whispered Hugh Ferrars, in 
her ear; “he will return when he reaches the end 
of the rampart. Wait until he is out of sight, and 
I will lift you down.” 

They waited in silence a few moments longer, 
then Hugh Ferrars lifted Miriam down from the 
embrasure, and led her across the road. 

“ Go now,” he said, as he clasped her in a part- 
ing embrace; “go, dear Miriam.” 

“I will come again,” she whispered. “ I will 
write when I can come again. Think of what I 
have said. Good-by, dear Hugh.” 

Once more their lips met in a long and linger- 
ing kiss, then Miriam left him, and a moment 
later was speeding her way up the deserted garden 
at the back of the Commandant’s house, and pant- 
ing, breathless, soon reached the back door, be- 
hind which Ford was impatiently awaiting her. 

Miriam just touched the door with her fingers 
and Ford immediately opened it. 

“O Miss Miriam!” she whispered, as Miriam 
passed swiftly in, “ my hair would have been gray 
by the morning if you had stayed a moment 
longer. I have been in such a way!” 


CHAPTER X. 


A LOAN. 

Miriam did not speak a single word until she 
reached her own room ; then she fell on her knees 
by the bed and buried her face in her hands, while 
her whole form shook with suppressed sobs. 

“You mustn’t, really. Miss Miriam,” said Ford, 
in a warning whisper. “Just think if they were 
to hear ! Let me give you some sal-volatile. 
Men are not worth it, none of them.” 

Miriam lifted her head to drink the sal-volatile 
that Ford held to her quivering lips, and in a 
minute or two it seemed to revive her. 

“I am better now,” she said: “but, O Ford, it 
was so dreadful!” 

“ I suppose he’s in a great way about you marry- 
ing Sir James?” answered Ford. “That’s just 
like them all ; if they can’t get you, they want you 
the more, and if they can get you without much 
trouble, they won’t even take it; and, of course. 
Miss Miriam, there is no doubt which is the best 
match— besides. Sir James has your promise.” 

“Yes,” said poor Miriam faintly. 

“A doctor is very well, you know, but he’s 
nothing when a baronet comes in the way,” con- 
tinued Ford meditatively, “ and in the long run 

III 


I 12 


THE LAST SIGNAL, 


men are pretty much the same. Don’t be angry 
at me saying it, Miss Miriam, but I wouldn’t run 
such a risk again; I wouldn’t indeed.” 

“I must go once more,” half whispered Miriam. 

“O Miss Miriam, I wouldn’t! One can never 
tell who is prying about. That Johnson, the 
orderly, is always hanging about the place. I’m 
sure I cannot tell what for. And you see if 
once one of these men got hold of it one never 
could tell where it might end; and Sir James is 
quite the gentleman and is worth making some 
sacrifice for.” 

Ford regarded Sir James with proper respect, 
because he had at various times since his engage- 
ment to Miriam placed a handsome donation in 
her willing hand. She was, therefore, really anx- 
ious that Miriam should be his wife, and went on 
praising him while she unfastened Miriam’s dark 
hair and otherwise assisted her to get ready for 
bed. 

“ You had best go. Ford ; you must be tired,” at 
last Miriam said gently. Accordingly, Ford went 
and was speedily wrapped in the sleep of the just. 
But Miriam could not sleep. She seemed to see 
again before her Hugh Ferrar’s dark face: to feel 
his kisses still burning on her lips. 

“Oh! why did I ever see him again?” moaned 
the poor girl, tossing restlessly on her bed. “ It 
seems so false of me, so wicked — and I love him 
so — and he is so miserable! Poor, poor Hugh!” 

When she did fall asleep at last she dreamed of 
him— dreamed that he and she were standing, 


A LOAN. 


II3 

liand-clasped, on a precipice, beneath which a 
dark and stormy sea was breaking, and that he 
was urging her to leap down with him into the 
abyss. 

“ If you love me ” he was saying. 

And she clung to him in her dream, but still 
turned her head away and shrank aside. Suddenly 
between her and the giddy verge came a shining 
form of light — white-robed, bright, and beautiful — 
who waved her back, and stood between her and 
the black depth below. 

“Oh! save me! save me!” she cried, in terror, 
and awoke. But when she glanced fearfully 
around the shining form was gone; the hoarse 
murmur of the sea was still. The gray dawn was 
glimmering through the window; the birds were 
twittering in the eaves, and Miriam knew that 
she had dreamed a dream, and shuddered when she 
recalled it. 

She felt ill and weary ; but when Ford rapped 
at the door at half-past seven, and peeped cau- 
tiously in to see if her young lady was awake, 
Miriam told her she meant to rise. 

“ You look very white and tired, Miss Miriam,” 
said Ford. 

“ I feel very tired; I’ve not slept well; but I’m 
coming down to breakfast,” answered Miriam; 
and she did go down. Mrs. Clyde was already 
seated at the table pouring out tea, and the Col- 
onel was reading his newspaper. They both 
looked up and smiled as their young daughter en- 
tered the room. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


TT4 

“Here is a letter for you, Miriam,” said the 
Colonel ; and as Miriam glanced at it she saw it 
was from Sir James. 

“It is from Sir James, isn’t it, my dear?” said 
Mrs. Clyde. 

“Yes, mother, I think so,” replied Miriam, tak- 
ing the letter from her father’s hand. But she 
did not open it; she laid it down by her plate on 
the table, and as she did so her mother looked at 
her attentively. 

“Are you not well this morning, Miriam?” she 
asked. “ Your eyes look so heavy.” 

“ I have rather a headache, and did not sleep 
very well,” replied Miriam. 

“Your tea will perhaps take it away. Read 
your letter, my dear; your father and I will ex- 
cuse you.” 

Then Miriam did open her letter, and her heart 
reproached her as she read the warm and trustful 
words it contained. 

“ He is coming to-day,” she said, without look- 
ing up. 

“That is right. You must make him stay to 
dinner,” smiled Mrs. Cl5’de. 

The Colonel glanced over his newspaper as his 
wife spoke, and looked at his daughter. A certain 
expression of anxiety stole into his eyes as he did 
so. Miriam, in truth, was looking exceedingly ill, 
and her feelings, as she read Sir James’s letter, 
were far from enviable. The more she saw of 
him, indeed, the more she hated the idea of de- 
ceiving him. He was so honest, so true, it made 


A LOAN. 


her own conduct seem baser. Here was this 
kindly gentleman writing to her in language of 
unmistakable affection and trust, and she knew 
she was unworthy of it all. 

One sentence of his letter was enough to tell her 
this: “I am always thinking of you, dear one; 
always wishing I could do something to please you. 
Will you tell me if I can, Miriam? You will 
make me so happy.” 

And the girl who read these words with a 
shamed heart had fixed to ask him to do something 
for her that very day. She left the breakfast- 
room feeling that she could not do this ; but by 
three o’clock in the afternoon vShe had resolved 
she would. She was torn with conflicting emotions 
and feelings; but Hugh Ferrars must leave New- 
brough-on-the-Sea before General Conray arrived 
there. xAnd who could she go to but Sir James to 
ask for help? she argued. Her father was far 
from being a rich man, and the hundred pounds 
he was going to provide for her trousseau was 
really a considerable drain on his yearly income. 
Besides, Miriam knew he would give her money 
for no such purpose as she required it, had he 
been ever so rich. Thus she made up her mind 
to ask Sir James to lend it to her, and ask him 
she did. 

He was standing looking out of the window 
when she entered the drawing-room armed with 
her purpose, and when he heard her footstep he 
turned round with a bright smile on his face, and 
went forward holding out both his hands. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


1 16 

“ How are you, darling?” he said tenderly. 

“I have rather a tiresome headache,” she an- 
swered, with a somewhat wintry smile. 

“ A headache? And how did my dear little girl 
get that?” and vSir James bent down and kissed 
the fair face that had lain weeping the night be- 
fore on Hugh Ferrar’s breast! 

This thought struck Miriam, and she started 
back. 

Sir James looked a little hurt, but he said noth- 
ing. 

“ She is such a shy little darling,” he reflected. 

Then he drew her gently to a couch near the 
fire and sat down by her side. 

“I met Escourt,” he said, “as I was coming 
here, and I asked him about that poor fellow who 
was shot on the sands some weeks ago, when you 
behaved so splendidly, Miriam. He says the man 
is nearly well again now, and out of the hospital.” 

Miriam was conscious that a sudden flush dyed 
her face, even her white throat. 

“Why, you silly little girl!” exclaimed Sir 
James smilingly, when he saw this sign of emo- 
tion. “ I declare you are blushing over your good 
deed! But do you know I was interested in what 
Escourt told me about this Dare. It .seems that 
the man Smith who shot him had some grudge 
against Dare. He’s a handsome fellow, Es- 
court says, so perhaps Smith’s sweetheart smiled 
on him,” and Sir James gave a laugh. “At all 
events, they say in the regiment that Smith was 
suspected of shooting Dare intentionally. But 


A LOAN. 


Ilf 


when Esconrt questioned Dare about this, he pos- 
itively denied it, and said it was a pure accident, 
and so saved Smith from a court-martial. So he 
must be a fine fellow not to get the man who 
shot him into trouble. I think I should like to 
have a talk with him some day, and see if I can 
do anything for him ; because, as my sweetheart 
saved his life, I am naturally interested about 
him.” 

Miriam could scarcely control herself as she lis- 
tened to these kindly words. 

“You have not seen him, I suppose, since the 
accident?” continued Sir James. 

Miriam shook her head; her lips were mute. 

“ Suppose we go and see him together, then?” 
went on Sir James. “ He’s able to go about, and 
he no doubt is awfully anxious to thank you for 
saving his life. It will be a kindness to the poor 
fellow, and I’ll give him a tip, which, I dare say, 
will be welcome, too.” 

“It is very kind of you,” said Miriam falter- 
ingly, turning away her head. 

“ Shall we go to-day then?" 

“No, not to-day; some other time,” answered 
Miriam, who was painfully agitated. 

“Very well, dear,” said Sir James kindly: 
“ whatever day you like. Perhaps it would worry 
you to-day, when you have a headache; but I 
should like to give the poor fellow something.” 

Miriam could bear it no longer ; she started to 
her feet. She drew a long, gasping sigh, and went 
to the window to try to conceal her emotion. 


ii8 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she was 
thinking, almost in despair. Too well she knew 
the fiery, jealous nature of the man Sir James 
called Dare — of Hugh Ferrars — for it had already 
cost her and hers terribly dear. And here was 
Sir James talking of their going to see him to- 
gether — of putting money into his hand! 

She stood silent, with her back to her lover, 
trying to think; but this did not suit Sir James. 
He crossed the room, and put his arm round her 
waist. 

“What is my thoughtful little girl thinking 
about so gravely?” he said. 

“Oh, nothing,” answered Miriam. 

“Well, I’ve got something to say to you, dar- 
ling,” continued Sir James. “I have told you 
about my old mother in vScotland, haven’t I?” ’ 

“ You have mentioned Lady MacKennon.” 

“Yes; well, to tell the truth, mother is rather a 
stern old dame, but true to the core, and I hope 
you will like her, and that she will like you. She 
has sent this letter for you. I told her when we 
were to be married, you know, and she has sent 
you some of the old family diamonds as a wed- 
ding present. Here is the case, which is not a par- 
ticularly handsome one, but the stones are good.” 

As Sir James said this, he put a letter in Mir- 
iam’s hand, and a jewel-case. Miriam trembled 
exceedingly as she took them. 

“ It is very good of her,” she said. 

“Let me open the case for you. There! what 
do you think of that?” 


A LOAN. 


II9 

It was a magnificent tiara; the setting of the 
stones was, however, old-fashioned, but the stones 
themselves were of great value. 

“ Oh, it is far too grand for me!” said Miriam, 
as she looked at the glittering gems. 

“Nothing is too grand for you, darling; it is 
not grand enough. If it were not that I fear it 
would vex the old dame, I would have it reset.” 

“ It is quite beautiful ; it is very kind, indeed, of 
Lady MacKennon to send it. It — it — makes me 
ashamed.” 

“ What of?” smiled Sir James. “ It is only nat- 
ural, isn’t it, that my mother should send my fu- 
ture wife a wedding present? I wonder what she 
has written to you?” 

Then Miriam opened Lady MacKennon’s letter, 
and read, written in stiff, old-fashioned hand- 
writing, the following words : 

“ Dear Miss Clyde My son tells me that he is to be 
married to you in a few weeks, so I forward some of 
the family diamonds for your acceptance. I have 
never worn them since I lost my husband, for my son 
is all that is left to me now in this world. I need 
not say I am anxious about his future happiness, and to 
see the wife that he has chosen. He is the worthy 
son of a worthy father, and I pray that God’s blessing 
may rest on you both. — Yours sincerely, 

“Janet MacKennon.” 

As Miriam read this letter a deep blush rose to 
her smooth, oval cheeks, which Sir James noted 
with a smile. 


120 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“What does she say?” he asked. “May I read 
it?” 

Miriam allowed him to take the letter from her 
hand, and after he had read it he gave a good- 
natured laugh. 

“ What a horribly boastful old lady she is !” he 
said. “ Behold the worthy son of a worthy father !” 
And again he laughed heartily. 

“ vShe naturally thinks a great deal of 5^ou. ” 

“ Well, all mothers think a great deal of their 
children, I suppose.” 

“ I don’t think ours does,” said Miriam. 

“Oh, yes, of course she does! She can’t be 
blind.” 

Miriam did not speak for a moment ; then, sud- 
denly, with a yet deepening blush, she looked up 
in her lover’,} face. ' 

“ Sir James, I am going to ask you something — 
a great favor.” 

“ It’s granted already, then,” smiled Sir James, 
taking her hand. 

“ I am ashamed to ask it — I scarcely know 
how to ask it — but will you lend me a hundred 
pounds?” 

Sir James laughed aloud. 

“My dear child!” he exclaimed, “of course I 
will give it to you. ” 

“ I will tell you what it is for,” faltered Miriam. 

“ But I don’t want to hear. I will send you a 
check for two hundred in the morning, darling.” 

“But I don’t want a check,” said Miriam. “I 
don’t want any one to know. I don’t want mother 


A LOAN. 


I2I 


to know. It — it is to help some one — who is poor 
—to ” 

“My dear one,” said Sir James, kissing her 
hand, you want it, and that is quite sufficient for 
me to know. I will bring down the money my- 
self to-morrow. Thank you, darling, for giving 
me an excuse to come.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 

Mrs. Clyde was greatly pleased when she saw 
Lady MacKennon’s gift to Miriam. She was a 
good judge of stones — as, indeed, she was a good 
judge of most things — and when she entered the 
drawing-room after Sir James had gone, she at 
once saw the old-fashioned jewel-case lying on a 
table, and Lady MacKennon’s letter beside it. 

“I saw Sir James go out, Miriam,” she said; 
“ is he coming back?” 

“No, mother, not to-day; it is a guest night, 
and he expects two men to dine with him.” 

“And has he brought you this?” said Mrs. 
Clyde, laying her hand on the jewel-case. 

“Lady MacKennon sent it,” answered Miriam, 
with a blush. 

“ Lady MacKennon ! That is very nice. May 
I look inside, my dear?” 

“Yes, of course, mother.” 

Then Mrs. Clyde opened the jewel-case. As 
she did so a delighted exclamation escaped her 
lips. 

“What a splendid tiara!” she said. “Why, 
Miriam, it is magnificent; and,” she added, bend- 
ing down to look at them closer, “these stones 
122 


TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 


123 


are of great value and beauty. This is, indeed, a 
compliment, my dear!” 

“ I think it is very handsome, and it is very 
kind of Lady MacKennon to send it.” 

“ It is more than kind ; it is most gracious, 
most generous. I am sure, ” continued Mrs. Clyde, 
smilingj “ I should never have parted with them 
to an)^ son’s wife of mine.” 

“That is her letter,” said Miriam. 

Mrs. Clyde read the letter critically, just as she 
had examined the stones. 

“ This is a proud old dame evidently,” she said; 
“proud, old-fashioned, and devoted to her son. 
My dear, she will think no one good enough for 
him — you must be prepared for this.” 

“ I am not good enough for him,” said Miriam. 

“You think very highly of him, then?” an- 
swered Mrs. Clyde, looking at her daughter. 

“ I think — he is very good and kind — most gen- 
erous. ” 

“ As I have often told you, you are a lucky girl 
to have won the affections of such a man. Your 
future life, my dear, will depend on yourself, for I 
feel convinced that Sir James will never give you 
any reason to regret your choice. If you are not 
thoroughly happy and content it will be your own 
fault.” 

Miriam did not speak. She moved across the 
room restlessly, and repressed a wistful sigh. 

“Where will you keep your treasures?” asked 
Mrs. Clyde, once more examining the diamonds. 
“ You cannot wear this until you are a matron, you 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


T 24 

know, and I dare say Sir James will be presenting 
you with other diamonds. You had better give 
them to your father to lock away in his safe.” 

“Very well, mother; will you take care of 
them?” 

“ I feel inclined to steal them,” said Mrs. Clyde, 
with a light laugh. 

“ I wish you would wear them sometimes.” 

Mrs. Clyde shook her head gayly. 

“No, my dear,” she said, “these are family 
jewels, and must grace no one who does not bear 
the proud name of MacKennon. I shall hope to 
see you wear them when you are presented, Mir- 
iam. About Lady MacKennon ’s letter? You 
must answer it.” 

“ I am sure I do not know what to say.” 

“ Oh, between us, I think, we can compose a 
proper epistle. She is of the old-fashioned school, 
evidently. I can imagine her, erect, white-haired, 
dignified, looking at the world with somewhat 
sombre eyes.” 

“ Sir James said she was very true-hearted.” 

“ Of course — true to her husband, lying in his 
grave, and to all the family traditions. Well, my 
dear, you must not disappoint her ; but I am sure 
you will not.” 

“I don’t know that, mother.” 

“ I am not afraid ; and when she sees how de- 
voted Sir James is to you, she will love you for 
his sake.’’ 

Miriam sighed. 

“ Shall I take them to your father now?” con- 


TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 


125 


tinued Mrs. Clyde, closing the jewel-case. “ I am 
half afraid to see them lying about ; they are so 
valuable.” 

“Thanks, mother, I wish you would.” 

So Mrs. Clyde carried away the diamonds, and 
Miriam stood thinking, after she was gone, of 
Sir James, and feeling painfully guilty toward 
him. 

“If he were only not so good!” she thought 
remorsefully; “and then he trusts me so, and that 
makes it worse to deceive him. I should not 
marry him, or I should tell him the truth. That 
I cannot do for Joan’s sake — for poor Hugh’s sake. 
My lips are sealed — and yet it seems so false, so 
base.” 

She thought this again and again, and her 
heart always reproached her. She had never liked 
Sir James so much as now. But it was not love 
that she felt. That subtle passion which comes 
and goes, unsought for and unrestrainable, never 
came near her with its fitful breath when she was 
with Sir James. The gray-eyed soldier in the 
hospital, the man whose life was wrecked, and 
whose fortunes were at the very lowest ebb, she 
had loved, she did love, though she knew that love 
must be always silent and secret as the grave. 

Her heart reproached her even more strongly 
on the following day, when Sir James arrived with 
two hundred pounds in notes, and placed them 
smilingly in her hands. 

“There!” he said, “this is the money, darling, 
that you wanted.” 


126 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“O Sir James, how good of you! Have you 
really brought me a hundred pounds?” 

Sir Tames laughingly shook his head. 

“ No,” he said. 

“How much, then?” asked Miriam, holding the 
envelope with the notes in her hand. 

“ Well, there is two hundred. ” 

“Oh, that is too much — I cannot take all that.” 
And then her thoughts for a moment took words. 
“I am not good enough for you. Sir James,” she 
said timidly ; “ indeed I am not — I am not worthy 
of all your kindness. ” 

“ What makes my dear one say that?” asked Sir 
James, almost gravely. 

It trembled on Miriam’s lips to say something 
of the truth. To confess — but no, no, she could 
not! The consequences might be too terrible, 
and she shrank back. 

“You are so good,” she faltered, with downcast 
eyes. 

“What nonsense, darling! If I am ever good, 
you will have to make me so ; your love will help 
me to keep straight. Without it, I don’t know 
what would become of me now, Miriam. You 
don’t know what you are to me,” and he took both 
her hands. 

“I will try,” said Miriam, still with downcast 
eyes. She was thinking: “I will try to repay 
you; try never to let you know what would grieve 
you so deeply.” 

She did not even know how deeply. Had Sir 
James guessed her secret, it would have wounded 


TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 


127 


him so sorely that the scar would have lasted him 
his life-time. He thought she was a young, shy, 
lovely girl, with half-awakened emotions, and he 
naturally never dreamed of the strong and passion- 
ate love that had stirred her soul. He had never 
seen the light in her eyes that had shone there for 
Hugh Ferrars. Miriam was, in truth, a woman 
of deep feelings, and her coy shyness with Sir 
James arose because she knew she was behaving 
dishonestly to him. Now as she looked at him, 
with his gift in her hand — the money for Hugh 
Ferrars — she felt she was more dishonest still. 

“ But he shall never know,” she whispered again 
to herself, and as she did so she put her hand in 
Sir James’. 

“About your mother?” she said. “I want to 
write to thank her for her beautiful present; and 
— shall I tell you the truth? — I do not know quite 
what to say.” 

“ I think she would like to hear from you. Oh, 
say something in your own pretty, natural way.” 

“ I mean — do you think she wishes us to marry?” 
asked Miriam. 

Sir James laughed a little uneasily. 

“Well, you know, she is an old-fashioned wo- 
man,” he answered, “and if she had been choos- 
ing a wife for me she certainly would have chosen 
one with a ‘Mac’ to her name. She’s preju- 
diced, and would have preferred me to marry a 
Scotch girl ; but for all that I know she will love 
you when she sees you, both for your own sake 
and mine. ” 


128 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Then— she did not like our engagement?” 

“ Not at first — to be quite candid ; but she knows 
now I will have no other wife.” 

“ But, Sir James ” 

“ I will listen to no ‘buts. ’ Do you think, dar- 
ling, that twenty mothers could change my heart 
to you? From the first time I saw you, Miriam, 
something stole over me I had never felt before; 
I seemed to live in a new world. I could not go 
back to the old one now. ” 

Sir James spoke these simple but impassioned 
words in a voice that trembled with emotion, and 
Miriam felt their truth. 

“ But ” she said hesitatingly, “ the knowl- 

edge that Lady MacKennon does — not like me, 
makes it very difficult — for me to write. ” 

“ Dear, she does not know you, that is all ; and 
she will, I am sure, be pleased to hear from you 
when you will so soon be her daughter. How 
pleased and proud I shall be to take you for the 
first time to Kintore, Miriam — to take my dear 
young wife. ” 

Miriam did not answer. She was half wishing 
that Sir James was other than he was — that he 
was less generous-hearted, less trustful. 

“I should not be so ashamed of myself then,” 
she thought. But her reflections were interrupted 
by the entrance of her mother, who at this mo- 
ment came into the room radiant and smiling. 

“ I have come especially to invite you to dinner, 
Sir James,” she said with a warm clasp of her 
hand. ‘‘And I want to tell you, too, how de- 


TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 


29 


lighted we all are with your mother’s splendid gift. 
It is beautiful, and I am quite longing to make 
Lady MacKennon’s acquaintance. I hope she will 
be our guest at the wedding. When Miriam writes 
to thank her for her magnificent present I shall 
write also to invite her here.” 

“It is very good of you,” answered Sir James. 
“ My mother rarely leaves home, and I have 
never known her leave Scotland ; but perhaps on 

such an occasion ” and he laughed and looked 

at Miriam. 

“ At all events, we must hope that she will be 
prevailed upon to come, ” said Mrs. Clyde, smiling. 
“ It will please us all so much, and make my little 
daughter here feel as if she were truly welcome to 
her new mother. ” 

9 


CHAPTER XIL 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 

Nevertheless, Lady MacKennon declined the 
invitation to the wedding which Mrs. Clyde 
penned in her most gracious, graceful style. She 
wrote back in that stiff, old-fashioned hand-writ- 
ing of hers that she was too old to leave home, but 
that she would be pleased to welcome her son’s 
wife there. It was not a warm nor cordial letter, 
but there was nothing in it to find fault with. 
Lady MacKennon was evidently a reserved wo- 
man, Mrs. Clyde decided; and she thought also, 
though she did not say so, that Miriam’s future 
mother-in-law would be a somewhat difficult per- 
son to deal with. 

Meanwhile, Miriam was trying to summon up 
her courage to seek another interview with Hugh 
Ferrars — a final interview, she told herself, for 
she would see him no more. He 77iust take the 
two hundred Sir James had given her, and leave 
England forever. Nothing else was safe for him, 
and she would not seem so false to Sir James 
if she knew it were absolutely impossible that she 
should ever meet Hugh Ferrars again. 

Poor Miriam! Her heart pulled her one way 
and her conscience another. She could not follow 
130 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. T31 

the dictates of her heart. She knew Hugh Fer- 
rars could be nothing to her were she to sacrifice 
everything for his sake. He must forget her, and 
she must try to forget him. They had no choice. 
The danger that dogged his footsteps was real and 
terrible; but it would be made ten times more 
real and terrible were she to link her fate with 
his. 

And then she must compromise herself again 
in the eyes of Ford — of Ford, who knew about the 
diamonds that had come from Sir James’s mother; 
who knew about the preparations for the wedding ; 
and yet she was obliged to allow Ford to think 
that she went out alone at night to meet Dr. Reed! 

There was no help for it. She could not send a 
large sum of money by post to Private Dare. 
Moreover, she believed that Hugh Ferrars would 
return it if she did. She knew his fiery, impet- 
uous nature ; but she hoped to prevail on him by 
her personal influence to take it. So she must 
see him, and she could only see him by the assist- 
ance of Ford. 

On the very day that Miriam had made up her 
mind to ask Ford to post another letter to Dr. 
Reed containing an inclosure for Dare, to Mir- 
iam’s dismay, when Sir James called in the after- 
noon as usual, he began to talk before her mother 
of Private Dare. 

“ Do you know, a very strange thing has just 
happened,” he said. “I told you, Miriam, I 
wanted to see the soldier that you were so good to. 
I called at the barracks, on my way here, and 


132 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


asked Escourt to go with me to see him. Well, 
Escourt went, and I saw this fellow Dare ; and a 
remarkably handsome fellow he is. He was sit- 
ting on a bench in front of the barracks, reading, 
and Escourt spoke to him and said who I was. ” 

“ How kind of you to interest yourself in him. 
Sir James!” said Mrs. Clyde graciously. 

“ I was interested in him because Miriam had 
behaved so bravely when he was wounded, and 
•also because he would not get the soldier who shot 
him into trouble. Now I am more interested 
still ; but I will tell you what happened. He got 
up and saluted when Escourt spoke to him, and 
then I asked him how he was. He answered very 
briefly; then I put a couple of sovereigns in his 
hand, or rather tried to put them into his hand, 
for he would not take them.” 

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Mrs. Clyde, rais- 
ing her eyebrows. 

“ Yes, wasn’t it?” continued Sir James. “‘Come, 
my good fellow,’ I said, ‘they’ll not do you any 
harm,’ and again I offered them to him. Then 
he looked me straight in the face, drew himself 
up, and said, haughtily enough, I can tell you: 
‘Sir, I do not take alms.’ Both Escourt and I 
were struck in a moment by his voice and manner. 
The fellow’s a gentleman, there’s no mistake about 
it, and I feel heartily sorry for him.” 

“ Do you not think it was impertinent of him to 
refuse your money when you meant it so kindly?” 
said Mrs. Clyde. 

“ No, I don’t. I expect it would be impossible 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 


33 


for him to take money from any one unless he had 
earned it. That was my impression, and I fancy 
I am right.” 

Miriam never spoke while this conversation was 
going on. She had hastily turned her head away, 
and listened with a fluttering heart and bated 
breath. 

“ And you really think he has been born a gen- 
tleman?” asked Mrs. Clyde. “ This is interesting. ” 

“I . am sure of it, ” said Sir James. “I asked 
Dr. Reed about him, later on, and the doctor 
laughed. ‘ Some poor fellow come to grief, I 
suppose,’ he said, and he did not seem much in- 
clined to talk about him. Perhaps this Dare has 
told him his history in confidence. At all events, 
he wouldn’t say anything, except that he thought 
he would soon be all right.” 

“It is strange, certainly; I must ask Colonel 
Clyde to inquire about him,” said Mrs. Clyde. 
Then she changed the conversation, and Sir James 
noticed when Miriam again looked round that her 
face had grown very white. 

She left the room a few moments later and hur- 
ried to her own. There was no time to lose, she 
told herself; Hugh Ferrars must go, or his secret 
would be discovered. At all events, Dr. Reed 
could be trusted, and so she rang for Ford. 

“ I — I want you to post a letter for me, Ford,” 
she said. 

“Yes, Miss Miriam,” answered the lady’s maid. 

“It — it is to Dr. Reed,” faltered Miriam, with 
downcast eyes. 


134 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“Yes, Miss Miriam,” again said Ford. 

“You can post it when we are at dinner.” 

“Is Sir James going to stay dinner?” inquired 
Ford demurely. 

“I think so,” answered Miriam, with shame in 
her heart. She felt that she was degrading her- 
self in the maid’s eyes — that she was degrading 
Sir James. But Ford made no comments. She 
slipped the letter into the pocket of her gown, and 
she wondered how her young mistress could be 
so unwise. 

“Surely she is not going to meet him again,” 
she thought, as she tripped downstairs. Then a 
temptation assailed her. She carried the letter to 
her own little room, drew it out, and looked at it 
attentively. It was sealed ; but Ford had sealing 
wax of her own, and also a neat little seal. She 
felt very curious. She wondered how far the in- 
trigue with Dr. Reed had gone, and if Miriam 
really meant to marry Sir James. 

“And her taking all his beautiful things, too,” 
reflected Ford, with disapproval. “ Diamonds 
and all.” 

vShe looked at the letter again, and the temp- 
tation became too strong for her. She broke the 
seal and found there was a letter and an inclos- 
ure, also sealed. Then she read the letter to Dr. 
Reed. 

“ Dear Dr. Reed: — Will you very kindly give the 
inclosed letter, as you did the last, to whom it is ad- 
dressed. I do not knowhow to thank you enough for 
your reticence to-day. — Yours very sincerely, M. C.” 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 


135 


“Well, this beats everything!” exclaimed Ford 
aloud, in her utter astonishment. Then she 
looked at the inclosed letter, addressed, to Private 
Dare at the barracks. 

''Private Dare!" repeated Ford. “Why, that’s 
the man who was shot on the sands, when Miss 
Miriam stopped the bleeding. And she surely 
can’t be carrying on with him too. If she goes 
on at this rate, she’ll come to grief as sure as my 
name is Rose Ford.” 

Then she began looking at the letter to the sol- 
dier, and once more temptation assailed her. 

“ I may as well see what’s inside,” she at length 
decided. And she did see what was inside, and 
she told herself it was disgraceful. What! Miss 
Miriam, who was engaged to Sir James MacKen- 
non — who was to be married to him so soon — to be 
writing thus to a private soldier! It was mon- 
strous, Ford told herself, absolutely monstrous! 

“ Dear, dear Hugh : — I must see you onee more. 
Can you meet me to-morrow night at the same hour 
as we met last — eleven? If so, inclose your answer 
to my maid, Ford. The same answer as before, 
nothing more. I will place the same signal — the 
light in my window — to let you know if I can come. — 
Yours faithfully, M.” 

“Faithfully, indeed!” repeated Ford; “nice 
faith, I must say. Well, I couldn’t have believed 
it of Miss Miriam — I couldn’t indeed!” 

However, there it was, in black and white, be- 
fore her. She carefully re-sealed both letters, and 


136 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


with many misgivings posted them. Sir James 
stayed to dinner, and Ford felt positively sorry for 
him. When Banks said to her afte'r dinner : 

“Sir James seems uncommon sweet on Miss 
Miriam,” Ford gave her head a little toss, but had 
the discretion to hold her tongue. 

“Rose,” continued Banks, who was washing 
the silver which had been used at dinner, con- 
templatively taking a spoon out of the jug of hot 
water before him ; “ don’t you think folks are bet- 
ter married than single?” 

“That depends on many things,” replied Ford. 

“In course it depends; but s’pose two people 
who are a bit sweet on each other — like you and 
me, say — eh?” 

“ Speak for yourself, Mr. Banks. ” 

“I am speakin’. Miss Rose; I’m speakin’ quite 
plain — and I think they are. ” 

“ Are what?” 

“ Better married. Tell me what you think.” 

“ There are many things to be considered.” 

“ In course there is ; but don’t you like me a bit. 
Rose?” And Banks dropped his towel and his 
spoon, and seized her hand. 

“Avery little bit,” answered Rose coquettishly. 

“ Better than that great lumberin’ fellow, John- 
son, the orderly, eh?” 

“Oh! Johnson is nothing to me,” answered Ford, 
with a toss of her head. 

“Yet he brags ye’re his sweetheart.” 

“ Does he, indeed? I wonder how many he 
has?” 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 


137 


“Plenty, I dare say,” answered Banks with a 
grin. “ But I’ve only got one.” 

“Jane the housemaid?” 

“Jane the housemaid be hanged I No, Rose, ye 
know better than that. My sweetheart is not far 
off me now.” 

“Oh! indeed.” 

“Yes — but oh! bother it, there’s the bell; that’s 

for coffee. Well, Rose, won’t ye give me ” 

but Rose had fled before Banks had time to make 
his request. 

“But it’s quite different just amusing oneself 
like that,” thought Ford, as she went tripping up- 
stairs, leaving her disappointed swain behind her; 
“ there’s no harm in nonsense. But about poor 
Sir James — well, I never!” 

Sir James, however, was feeling quite content 
and happy at this moment. Was not every day 
bringing him nearer to perfect happiness? If 
his Miriam looked a little pale and tired, he was 
only dreaming of the time when he might watch 
over her and be near her in sickness and in health. 
He was hanging over her now, at the very 
moment when Ford was pitying him, watching 
her white supple fingers glide over the ivory 
keys. 

“May I come to-morrow?” he whispered. 

“No, not to-morrow,” answered Miriam, with- 
out looking up. 

“But it’s so long to the next day,” said Sir 
James, smiling. 

“ It will pass away. I have a great deal to do 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


138 

to-morrow,” and a slight shiver passed through 
her frame as she spoke. 

Colonel Clyde approached the two at the piano, 
and asked Miriam for a song that was a favorite 
of his, and while Sir James was seeking for it 
among her music, he began to tell the story to 
Colonel Clyde about the soldier Dare having re- 
fused his money, and that he was quite sure he was 
a gentleman. 

“ It is possible,” answered the Colonel gravely; 
“ I have known of such cases before.” 

“ I felt quite ashamed that I had offered him 
anything, ” said Sir James, “ he looked so disgusted. 
Here is the song, Miriam,” and Miriam took it 
in her trembling hand. 

She did not sing it ver}^ well; she was glad 
when the evening was over and when Sir James 
went away — glad when those kindly gray eyes 
were not fixed so trustfully on her face. Their 
expression silently reproached her, though there 
was no reproach in them — nothing but tenderness 
and love. Miriam hated herself for deceiving Sir 
James, yet told herself at the same moment that 
circumstances compelled her to do so. She was 
bound hand and foot. If she alone could have 
suffered by speaking the truth in these days, she 
would have told it. But there were links within 
links, bonds within bonds, and Miriam felt herself 
powerless to escape the meshes in which she had 
become entangled. 

When, on the following morning. Ford placed 
a letter in her hand addressed to Miss Ford, there 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 


139 


was a look in the maid’s blue eyes that made her 
shudder, a look which told her as plainly as words 
that Ford no longer respected her. vShe did not 
imagine that Ford had opened her letters, but 
she thought that Ford thought she was acting 
wrongfully. 

She opened the letter and read the brief words 
it contained, silently, though with a fast-beating 
heart. Then she saw that her maid was watching 
her curiously. 

“ I — I shall have to go out again to-night, 
Ford — for the last time,” she said, with a falter- 
ing tongue; “ and I ,want you to help me.” 

Now, Ford had been handsomely rewarded for 
her assistance on the former occasion, and sove- 
reigns were dear to her soul. She knew that she 
would no doubt be handsomely rewarded again ; 
but, still, she had her scruples. For one thing,, 
she thought that “ Miss Miriam,” for the sake of 
a mere fancy, was running a very great risk of 
ever becoming Lady MacKennon. Now, Ford, as 
we know, wished to become lady’s maid to Lady 
MacKennon, and, therefore, her own interests 
were bound up in her young mistress’s. And a 
private soldier! That was what disgusted Ford. 
She thought her mistress was degrading herself ; 
but, of course, she did not venture to tell her 
so. 

“To-night, Miss Miriam?” she said, in a doubt- 
ful tone, in reply to Miriam’s request. 

“Yes, to-night. I — must risk it once more — 
for the last time,” repeated Miriam. 


T40 


THE LAST SIGNAL, 


“Well, it’s a great risk. Miss Miriam, don’t be 
angry — but I would not go.” 

“I must; I have no choice!” said Miriam, with 
agitation. “ I must go as I did the last time — at 
the same hour. Ford, will you help me?” 

“If you must go. Miss Miriam — but I’m just 
frightened to think of it.” 

“ Whatever happens I must go. We must do as 
best we can. It’s a dull day — I pray God it may 
be a dark, dull night.” 

“A nice thing to pray about!” reflected Ford, 
looking at Miriam’s pale, excited face. “I wish 
it was over, I am sure,” she said. 

Miriam did not speak. Her hopes were realized 
as regards the weather. 

Ford, when she came to assist Miriam to dress 
for dinner, urged her not to attempt to go. 

“It’s a perfect storm outside. Miss Miriam, ’’she 
said. “ Banks says you are just blown off your 
feet, and the sea’s raging. I would not try to go 
on such a night. ” 

“ Yes, I am going,” answered Miriam. She was 
very pale, but Ford saw by the expression of her 
face that she was resolved, and that it would be 
useless to make any further attempt to prevent 
her. Miriam had arranged everything for her 
meeting with Ferrars. She had placed the two 
hundred pounds in a secure packet, and in a small 
gold locket she had put a curl of her shining hair. 
She meant this as a parting gift to Hugh Ferrars; 
a token of their old love to carry away with him 
into another land. 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. I41 

The unstaying hours passed on, until the draw- 
ing-room clock chimed the half-hour after ten, 
and then the Colonel, as was his usual custom, 
rose. 

“ I wish there may not be some loss at sea to- 
night,” he said. “ You must not get a start, Mir- 
iam, if you hear the signal guns.” 

“Oh! I hope we won’t hear them, father,” she 
answered, and then she presently bade her parents 
good-night, and went to her own room, where she 
found Ford awaiting her. 

“ It’s a fearful night. Miss Miriam!” she whis- 
pered. “ Banks thinks there will be some wrecks 
before the morning.” 

“ It’s dark and stormy,” answered Miriam, plac- 
ing her lighted candle in the window. “ So much 
the better; no one will see us to-night.” 

It was cold, and Ford’s white teeth were al- 
most chattering in her head, partly through fear. 
It was such a terrible risk, she thought — a risk not 
only to Miriam, but also to herself. For she knew 
that if this meeting were discovered, not only 
would Miriam probably lose Sir James MacKen- 
non, but that she. Ford, would certainly lose her 
place. But Miriam never faltered. She placed 
the packet for Hugh Ferrars in the bosom of her 
dress, and laid a dark waterproof on the bed ready 
to wear. Then the two girls stood listening to 
the sullen roar of the sea, and the gusts of wind 
and rain that swept round the Commandant’s 
house with unceasing violence. They heard, too, 
Colonel Clyde and his wife go upstairs; heard 


142 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


their bedroom door locked, and they looked at 
each other. 

And the minutes passed— passed slowly, Mir- 
iam thought, as she stood ready with her water- 
proof wrapped round her form and head. She 
did not speak; she pointed with her finger when 
the dial of the little jewelled watch told the hour. 
Then Ford opened the room door and they passed 
silently out, Ford closing it behind them. Down 
the stair they glided in the darkness, and through 
the unlit passages, until they came to the back 
door of the house. This Ford opened, and as she 
did so a fierce gust of wind swept in and nearly 
forced the door out of Ford’s strong hands. 

“Oh! don’t go. Miss Miriam,’’ she whispered. 

“I must!” answered Miriam, and the next mo- 
ment she was facing the storm. 

It was all she could do to bear up against it. 
The wind blew hither and thither, her waterproof 
flapped, the rain beat on her face; but, with a 
sort of desperate energy she went on — on through 
the rain-soaked garden, on to the roadway outside 
it. Here the wind rose to a hurricane, and she 
had to turn and cling to the garden rails to sup- 
port herself. She was still clinging, unable to 
proceed, when she heard a step behind her, and 
the next moment some one put his arm round her. 

“Is this really you, Miriam?” said Hugh Fer- 
rars’ voice. 

“Yes, Hugh; what a fearful night!” she an- 
swered breathlessly. 

“Terrible! I never expected you to come.” 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 


143 


“I came, Hugh, because,” said Miriam, still 
breathlessly, “ because I have brought you the 
money to go away — it is here ” 

“ I will not take it.” 

“Oh! you must, you must!” cried Miriam pas- 
sionately, now clinging to his arm. “ Hugh, you 
are not safe here. I cannot rest night nor day for 
thinking of it. There is enough here to buy your 
discharge and for you to go away — right away out of 
England ! Hugh, this is our last meeting on earth. 
After this we must see each other no more!” 

“And you think I would take Sir James Mac- 
Kennon’s money?” said Hugh Ferrars bitterly. 
” You wish me to be out of his way.” 

“Oh! do not say so! I wish you to be safe; I 
wish the — terrible memory of that night to be 
blotted out.” 

“ That will never be to me.” 

“ You were not to blame — you thought yourself 
justified — but, Hugh, it is done. We cannot recall 
the past; let us try to live it down — to forget it. 
This cannot be while you are in England — while 
you are here. ” 

“ I will not take Sir James MacKennon’s money 
to go away, Miriam. If you loved me you would 
not ask me to degrade myself.” 

At this moment such a blast of wind swept 
over them that they were both nearly carried off 
their feet. Hugh Ferrars held Miriam’s arm fast, 
but it needed all his strength to do so. 

“What a night!” she cried, panting, with her 
head upon his breast. 


144 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ A fitting night for us to part,” said Hugh Fer- 
rars; “in storm and darkness — if this is, indeed, 
our last parting, Miriam. ” 

She made no answer; she clung to him, while 
the storm raged round them and the sea roared 
below. Then, suddenly, through the darkness, 
came a flash, and the boom of a heavy gun. 

“ Oh ! what is that?” asked Miriam, in a terri- 
fied whisper. 

“ A ship has struck on the rocks ! It is the sig- 
nal to call out the life-brigade! Hark, and you 
will hear the Queen’s ship in the harbor answer 
it.” 

They listened, and from the harbor came the an- 
swering gun. 

“Oh! I must go!” cried Miriam. “I dare not 
stay — the soldiers will be turning out to help— - 
perhaps my father! Hugh, as a last request, take 
this packet. There is some of my hair in it; take 
it for my sake. O Hugh, help me to the railings, 
and then good-by — good-by, dear Hugh!” 

She thrust the packet into his hand as she spoke, 
and a minute later had caught hold of the garden 
railings for support, assisted by Hugh Farrars. 
There was no time to lose; the garrison would no 
doubt be roused by the signal guns, and the whole 
place alive with spectators. Already there was 
the hum of voices heard through the howling 
blast. Ferrars did not attempt to detain her. He 
pressed his lips to hers and let her go. Stumbling, 
panting, terrified, Miriam fled back to the house 
through the dark, wet garden, and reached the 


IN STORM AND DARKNESS. 


145 


door, which, as she touched it, was instantly 
opened by Ford. 

“O Miss Miriam, I believe we’re ruined !” whis- 
pered Ford, who was trembling with fear. “ I 
heard the Colonel’s voice calling Banks. We must 
try to slip upstairs; we may not be seen.” 

They crept through the dark passages; they 
stole up the dark stairs; they reached the landing 
on which was situated the bedroom of Colonel and 
Mrs. Clyde. They saw a light flickering below 
the door from within, and just as they passed it 
the door opened! Mrs. Clyde came out with a 
lighted candle in her hand, and her eyes instantly 
fell on her daughter’s drenched and cowering 
form. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


NO USE. 

“ Miriam !” cried Mrs. Clyde, in dismay, “ where 
have you been?” 

Miriam made no answer. She was too terrified 
to speak, but the quick-witted Ford did : 

“We have been to try and see the wreck, Mrs. 
Clyde,” she said. “It’s an awful night; we’ve 
been nearly blown away. We shouldn’t have 
gone, but Miss Miriam wanted to see a wreck, so 
we went.” 

As the girl hurriedly and mendaciously made 
this explanation, Mrs. Clyde’s stern eyes for a 
moment left her daughter’s rain-soaked figure and 
rested on the lady’s-maid’s face. 

“ It’s just blowing a hurricane,” continued Ford, 
somewhat abashed. But Mrs. Clyde did not 
speak; she raised her candle and looked at the 
two before her. Ford’s face was rather pale, but 
her dress was perfectly neat and dry. She had 
evidently not been out in the rain. Miriam’s 
dress, on the contrary, was storm-beaten and dis- 
arranged, her dark hair was blown and tangled, her 
face was white and agitated, and her eyes were 
stained. Mrs. Clyde did not believe Ford’s story. 
In a moment the thought flashed across her mind 
146 


NO USE. 


147 


that Miriam had been out on some secret errand — 
out alone in the storm for some hidden purpose ; 
and this idea was absolutely terrible to her mother. 

“Go to your room, Miriam,” she said, in a 
strangely altered voice to her usual placid tones; 
“ take off your wet things, and I will bring you 
some wine. It was madness of you to go out.” 

Without a single word, Miriam obeyed her, and 
went with trembling feet to her own room, which 
was on a higher story than her mother’s. Ford 
followed her, also in silence. But when they 
reached Miriam’s room Ford’s tongue was loosed. 

“O Miss Miriam, what will you say?” she asked 
in a terrified whisper, as she proceeded to unfasten 
Miriam’s wet cloak. “We had better stick to the 
story about the wreck, hadn’t we?” 

“ She will not believe it; she does not believe 
it,” answered Miriam falteringly. “I can say 
nothing. It is best not to speak. ” 

“ Oh ! but. Miss Miriam ” 

“Hush! do not talk; I cannot bear it!” said 
Miriam, putting her hand to her forehead as if she 
were utterly exhausted. “ 1— I — feel quite faint.” 

She had grown deadly pale, and her whole form 
was trembling. Ford grew alarmed. 

“Oh! where is the sal-volatile?” she cried, “or 
the salts? O Miss Miriam, don’t look like that. 
After all, she can’t kill us, you know. Let me 
hold you up. ” 

Almost as she spoke, Mrs. Clyde entered the 
room. She at once saw Miriam was too ill to be 
questioned. 


148 THE LAST SIGNAL. 

“ Pull off her shoes and stockings, Ford, and 
chafe her feet. Miriam, lay your head against 
me ; or best let us lift you on the bed. ” 

Miriam made no reply, and Mrs. Clyde speedily 
had her wet clothes removed, and warm and dry 
ones soon replaced them. Then she and Ford 
lifted the half-fainting girl on the bed, and Mrs. 
Clyde sent Ford for some brandy. 

“Do not alarm the Colonel,” she said; “say 
Miss Miriam is not very well.” 

When the brandy came, she insisted upon Mir- 
iam taking some, and rubbing her feet also with 
the spirit. But she asked no questions and gave 
no blame. She was frightened; almost for the 
first time in her self-assured life a dread of some- 
thing she did not understand had crept over her. 
That Miriam, her proud, reserved girl, should 
have gone out alone at night positively appalled 
her. Ford, she saw, had not been out ; and when 
Ford began to pluck up her spirits, and said some- 
thing more about the shipwreck, Mrs. Clyde with 
a look and a gesture commanded her to be silent. 

She sat by Miriam’s bedside, and the girl lay 
with closed eyes and quivering lips. She was 
conscious, and thankful to her mother for her for- 
bearance. At last she fell into an uneasy sleep, 
probably under the influence of the brandy ; and 
when Mrs. Clyde saw this, she signed to Ford to 
go to bed. 

Long Mrs. Clyde sat there watching her daugh- 
ter, her acute mind seeking for some possible 
motive to account for Miriam’s conduct. That 


NO USE. 


149 


she had gone out to meet some one — some secret 
lover — seemed to be the only solution that Mrs. 
Clyde eould think of. And this thought was most 
grievous to her. And who eould it be? Captain 
Escourt seemed at one time to admire Miriam, but 
it had never apparently gone any further than ad- 
miration. Indeed, Mrs. Clyde did not encourage 
the attentions of young officers to her daughter. 
Dr. Reed! Could it be Dr. Reed? But no, no! 
impossible, decided Mrs. Clyde. Then she re- 
membered how determinately Miriam had delayed 
her wedding for a month. Indeed, Mrs. Clyde 
grew more and more uneasy as she reflected. 
Good heavens ! had the girl been playing a part 
all this while, perhaps not meaning to marry Sir 
James after all? Mrs. Clyde felt positively afraid 
to leave the room — afraid to leave Miriam alone ; 
and yet she did not wish to tell her husband that 
anything extraordinary had happened. It seemed, 
she thought, a refleetion on herself that sueh a 
thing could have occurred under her roof. 

The Colonel had gone out to see about the 
wreck, but in an hour or so Mrs. Clyde heard him 
return. As she did so, after another glance at 
Miriam, who was still sleeping, she rose and 
quietly left the room. She found her husband 
taking off his wet cloak in the hall, and she at 
once went up to him. 

“ I fear you have got very wet,” she said. 

“It’s a tremendous gale,” answered Colonel 
Clyde, “ and the ship on the rocks is breaking up 
fast. It struck just below the ramparts.” 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


150 

“ I hope there has been no loss of life?” 

“Unfortunately, yes; but the life-brigade and 
the soldiers have saved several of the seamen. 
That Dare, the man who was shot, showed con- 
spicuous courage. One poor fellow was clinging 
to the rocks, with the waves washing over him 
every moment, and Dare had a rope fastened 
round his waist and swam out to the rocks through 
the boiling surf. He was driven back again and 
again, and ran the risk of his life, but at last he 
reached the rocks and managed to get hold of the 
drowning sailor; then the men on shore pulled 
in the rope, and Dare brought the man in alive. 
It was a brave action. Dr. Reed and Escourt both 
went up and shook Dare by the hand; but the 
doctor blamed him at the same time, and said he 
was not well enough yet to have done such a 
thing.” 

“ That is the man they think is a gentleman, is 
it not?” asked Mrs. Clyde thoughtfully. 

“ He looks like one, at any rate — a fine-looking 
fellow with a daring expression of face. I went 
up and spoke to him, and he merely bowed. Reed 
seemed anxious about him, and insisted on his 
leaving the shore before I came away.” 

Mrs. Clyde did not speak for a moment, 

“ By-the-bye, how. is Miriam?” asked the Col- 
onel. “ Ford came for the brandy just as I was 
going out, and said she was not well.” 

“ The guns startled her, and she turned faint. 
She is asleep now,” answered Mrs. Clyde quietly. 

“ She is not strong, poor girl.” 


NO USE. 15 I 

“ No; but, come, I must see after your comforts. 
I am sure you ought to take some brandy. ” 

Colonel Clyde did not refuse his wife’s offer. 
As he sipped his cognac he once more alluded to 
the soldier Dare. 

“ I think there must be some history attached to 
this Dare,” he said; “ for just before he plunged 
into the sea he went up to Dr. Reed and asked 
him to take charge of a small packet which he had 
in his hand. ‘ I may not return, you know, doctor, ’ 
he said, ‘and if I do not will you see this is safely 
delivered to — you know whom^' Escourt thought he 
said, so I suppose Reed knows all about him. At 
all events, after he had saved the man I saw Reed 
give him this packet back ; and, moreover, Reed 
would not say anything about it.” 

“A packet?” repeated Mrs. Clyde. 

“ It looked like a big envelope, and Dare carried 
it away with him when the doctor insisted on his 
leaving the shore. Some gift from his sweet- 
heart, most likely, poor fellow.” 

“Yes, most likely,” said Mrs. Clyde, and then 
she left the room and went upstairs once more to 
look at Miriam. 

She was still sleeping, and her mother stood 
watching her with an uneasy heart. The girl 
looked beautiful, and stirred uneasily in her rest- 
less slumber. Presently Mrs. Clyde stole away, 
as she did not wish to disturb her husband ; but 
again and again during the night she thought 
anxiously of Miriam. 

Her anxiety did not decrease on the following 


152 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


day. Miriam was low and feverish, and kept her 
bed; and Mrs. Clyde was still afraid to question 
her. She herself made no allusion to the storm 
of the night before, and she avoided meeting her 
mother’s eyes, and visibly shrank every time Mrs. 
Clyde entered the room. And something — an un- 
defined suspicion, perhaps — prevented Mrs. Clyde 
speaking to her daughter of the bravery of the sol- 
dier Dare. But Ford was not so reticent. She 
had heard from her admirer. Banks, that the sol- 
dier who had been shot on the sands had saved a 
poor sailor’s life at great risk to his own, and 
Ford could not resist telling this to Miriam. She 
was curious, indeed, to see the effect of her com- 
munication on her young mistress. When she 
saw the startled look of fear in Miriam’s eyes as 
she listened, and then the gleam that lighted 
them. Ford came to the conclusion that Miss Mir- 
iam certainly had a very strong regard for this 
young soldier. 

But the day did not end without a greater sur- 
prise still happening to Ford. While the Col- 
onel and his wife were at dinner, Ford hurried up 
to Miriam’s room in a state of much excitement, 
and, having closed the door, went up to the side 
of Miriam’s bed. 

“O Miss Miriam,” she half whispered, “such a 
thing has happened!” 

“ WhatV asked Miriam, in sudden fear. 

“I'm so put out I can scarcely tell you,” con- 
tinued Ford. “ But just about half an hour ago I 
was standing at the back door doing nothing par- 


NO USE. 


153 


ticular. I thought Johnson, or one of the order- 
lies, might be coming to the house, as it was about 
Johnson’s time to bring the Colonel’s letters, and 
I wanted to know if he had heard anything about 
the poor sailors who were wrecked, or if any more 
bodies had been cast up. Well, I was standing 
looking out when a soldier passed me, and he 
looked at me, but of course I didn’t think any- 
thing of that. I saw it wasn’t Johnson, nor any 
of the men I knew, and I wondered who this sol- 
dier could be hanging about there. But in half a 
minute he was back again, and this time he spoke 
to me. 

“‘Are you Miss Clyde’s maid. Ford?’ he asked, 
in a low tone. I said, ‘yes;’ and then he whispered 
to me to come out for a moment or two into the^ 
garden. I thought I would go, though I was in 
an awful fright that Banks or any of them should 
see me. However, I knew Banks was busy with 
his silver in the butler’s pantry, and I wanted to 
know what this young man had to say; so I went 
out a few steps into the dark, and again he whis- 
pered to me. 

“‘You are sure, he said, ‘that you are Ford, 
Miss Clyde’s maid?’ ‘I am quite sure,’ I an- 
swered. ‘And 5^ou sometimes get letters for her?’ 
he asked next. ‘I have got them,’ I said. ‘Then 
I wish you to give her this packet,’ he went on; 
‘to give it to her when no one else is present. 
Will you do this?’ 

“ I said ‘yes, ’ and he put it into my hand. This 
is the packet. Miss Miriam,’’ continued Ford, 


154 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


drawing out the large envelope which Miriam had 
placed the night before in Hugh Ferrars’ hand, 
and which had contained the two hundred pounds 
in notes. When Miriam recognized it she gave a 
little cry of despair. 

“Oh! why did you take it?” she said. “And 
yet — and 5"et ” 

She tore open the sealed envelope as she spoke, 
and Ford’s blue eyes instantly assumed an avari- 
cious expression when she saw the roll of crisp new 
notes. But Miriam never thought of her, nor of 
the notes. She was eagerly reading a letter 
which the envelope had also contained, and her 
eyes grew dim with tears as she did so. 

“ Dear Miriam — Always to me most dear Miriam — 
am about to try to find an opportunity to return the 
money you brought me last night, which it is impos- 
sible for me to take. Do not ask me to do so again ; 
it pains me ; it humiliates me for you to do so. But 
I will keep the locket you brought me, and when I 
die it will be fastened round my neck, as it is now ; 
and if I am conscious I will ask those near me to lay 
it in my grave. I will try — and I think Dr. Reed will 
help me in this — to effect an exchange into some reg- 
iment in India, and so will pass away out of your 
sight and out of your life. Forgive me all the sorrow 
I have brought you. Ours, indeed, has been a mis- 
erable fate — oh ! most, most miserable, Miriam ! — but 
it has not cut into your heart as it has cut into mine ; 
and no doubt happier days are before you. / have 
nothing left to live for, and will welcome death; 
while you — but I cannot write of it. Shall I — may 
I — see you once more? For the last time? — H. F." 


NO USE. 


155 


By the time Miriam had finished reading these 
desponding words her tears were falling fast. 
The bank-notes lay unheeded on the bed except 
by Ford, who eonld not take her eyes off them. 
As Miriam raised her arm with a desponding 
attitude and covered her face with her hand, they 
fell upon the floor. 

“ O Miss Miriam, look at all this money rolling 
about!” cried Ford, stooping eagerly down and 
picking up the roll of notes. 

“ It is of no use now,” murmured Miriam, with 
a sort of moan. 

“Oh! yes, yes. Miss Miriam, money’s always of 
use,” answered Ford, lovingly fingering the notes. 

Then Miriam looked at the girl with her tear- 
stained eyes. 

“You can keep one of them,” she said, “for — 
for bringing them to me. And, Ford, did he say 
anything else. How did he look?” 

“May I really have one? A whole five-pound 
note? Thank you. Miss Miriam, I am very much 
obliged. Did he say anything ihore?” continued 
Ford, pocketing her note and laying the others 
once more on the bed. “Yes, he did; he asked 
how you were, and I told him you were ill, and 
that we had both got into great trouble with going 
to meet him last night, as Mrs. Clyde had caught 
us.” 

“O Ford! you should not have said that.” 

“ Well, Miss Miriam, all I can say is I am sure 
Mrs. Clyde means to give me notice by the way 
she looks at me. But I hope you won’t forget me 


156 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


when you marry Sir James, for I am sure you will 
remember I did not wish you to go?” 

“Yes, I know,” said Miriam sorrowfully. 

“ It was an awful risk, you know, Miss Miriam ; 
and your marriage so near.” 

“And — did he say anything more?” asked Mir- 
iam wistfully. 

“ I said as your marriage was so near ; and he 
never spoke. Then in a little bit he said, ‘Give 
her the packet. ’ That was all. The next minute 
he had disappeared, and when I ran back to the 
house, if there wasn’t Banks, that I thought I had 
safe enough, on the lookout, and was so impudent 
as ever he could be! But I told him I wouldn’t 
stand that kind of thing, and so ran past him and 
came straight to you.” 

“Thank you,” said Miriam wearily. “Reach 
me my little desk. Ford; and now you can go.” 

Ford handed Miriam her desk, in which she 
placed the notes, but not the letter she had received 
from Hugh Ferrars. This she held still in her 
hand, and after Ford had left the room, she pressed 
it against her lips. 

“Poor Hugh!” she murmured; “it was no use 
then — no use!” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Miriam’s request. 

When Mrs. Clyde came upstairs, to inquire how 
Miriam was after dinner, she still said nothing on 
the subject which was so sorely troubling her. 
But on the following morning, when she entered 
Miriam’s bedroom, carrying in her hand a letter 
which had arrived from Sir James, her face was 
very grave. 

“ Here is a letter for you, Miriam, from Sir 
James,” she began. 

Miriam stretched out her hand, and took it in 
silence. 

“Are you better this morning?” continued Mrs. 
Clyde. 

“Yes, a little, thank you, mother.” 

“Miriam,” said Mrs. Clyde, still more gravely; 
“ will you tell me now how and why you were out 
in the storm the night before last?” 

Miriam did not speak. 

“You must tell me, Miriam; I can bear the 
anxiety no longer.. What induced you to leave 
your father’s house at such an hour?” 

Then Miriam lifted her dark eyes, and looked 
straight in her mother’s face. 

“ Mother, I cannot tell you,” she answered, with 

157 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


158 

a firmness that surprised Mrs. Clyde. “ My errand 
did no good — was no use ; but there is something 
I wish to speak to you about — about my marriage. ” 

“ About your marriage?” repeated Mrs. Clyde, 
with a sinking heart. 

“ Yes, I wish now not to be married here ; I wish 
to go to London. Sir James, I know, will agree 
to this if I ask him and ^ hope you and my father 
will also.’ 

Mrs. Clyde did not speak for a few moments. 
She stood looking sternly at her young daughter ; 
the most painful thoughts were passing through 
her mind. 

“ You have a strong reason for this, I presume?” 
she said, at length. 

“Yes, a very strong reason. I ask you to make 
no objections, mother, for I cannot be married 
here. ” 

“ And you wish to keep this motive a secret from 
me?” 

“ I have no choice. Don’t say anything more, 
mother,” continued Miriam, with sudden and 
strange excitement of manner, putting out her 
hand as though to prevent Mrs. Clyde speaking. 
“ It would do no good — none to any of us. I am 
willing to keep my promise to Sir J ames ; to marry 
him when I said I would; but not here.” 

Again Mrs. Clyde was silent for a few moments ; 
again she fixed her eyes on her daughter’s face 
with strong disapproval. Then she said slowly: 

“ I must think this over. Your conduct is most 
strange. I little thought that a child of mine 


Miriam’s request. 


IS9 

would have cost me such great anxiety. I will 
come back to you in an hour.” 

She left the room and returned to the breakfast- 
room, where her husband was preparing, as usual, 
to go out on his military duties. But she said 
nothing to him of Miriam’s strange request, and 
after he went out she sat down in great perplexity. 
Some secret, the idea and fear of which made her 
almost shudder, had evidently induced Miriam to 
act in so extraordinary a manner. She thought 
once of writing to her daughter, Joan, to make 
certain inquiries ; but on second thoughts she was 
afraid to do this. It was wiser to keep everything 
quiet. Miriam had shown strange obstinacy in 
putting off her marriage a month. She had per- 
sisted in this, and would no doubt persist in re- 
fusing to be married at Newbrough-on-the-Sea, 
Best let her have her own way, at last decided 
Mrs. Clyde; and best leave Newbrough as soon 
as possible. The danger must be here^ and the 
quicker Miriam was away from it, the safer she 
would be. 

But Mrs. Clyde felt terribly shocked at the 
whole affair. She was a worldly woman, but 
honorable in her way ; and her husband was highly 
honorable. And she felt that Sir James Mac- 
Kennon was being deceived. Still, it would be 
madness to say anything. If once Miriam were 
married, this folly, whatever it might be, would 
surely end. So Mrs. Clyde resolved to be silent, 
and to arrange that the marriage should be in 
town, as Miriam had wished. 


i6o 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Presently she returned to her daughter’s room 
to tell her this. She found Miriam up and dressed, 
and Sir James’ letter lying open on the table; 
but Miriam hastily pushed it aside as her mother 
entered. She was ashamed, perhaps, that her 
mother should see his loving, trustful words. 

“I have decided it shall be as you' wish,” said 
Mrs. Clyde, as she watched this sudden action of 
Miriam’s. “ You shall be married in Town at the 
time you fixed. You will not, I trust, deceive 
me again?” 

“No, mother, I will not,” answered Miriam, 
without looking up. 

“And you will not, I hope,” continued Mrs. 
Clyde, with some excitement — and her fine com- 
plexion flushed as she spoke — “ you will not deceive 
the honorable man you are about to marry, and 
whom, I am sure, trusts you completely?” 

“ I will not,” said Miriam, slowly and painfully; 
and her face also flushed deeply. 

“ Then I shall say no more. Whatever this 
secret is that you are keeping from your best 
friend, let me entreat you at least to bring no dis- 
credit to Sir James. You risked your reputation 
the other night, you must remember ; surely you 
will do so no more?” 

“ Mother, I have promised; do not be afraid.” 

“ Let us leave here at once. Is Sir James com- 
ing to see you to-day?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I will propose the change to him ; best let it 
come from me. Let us leave here to-morrow. I 


Miriam’s request. 


i6i 


will explain to Sir James that your trousseau will 
require all the time that is left to us to procure 
it.” 

“ I will go when you like ; I am glad to go, ” said 
Miriam. 

“ That is settled, then. Will you come down 
to lunch, Miriam?” 

“ If you wish it, mother.” 

“ I do wish it ; I wish all that has passed during 
the last two days to be spared your father. It 
has been pain enough to me ; I ask you not to let 
it worry him. ” 

“Very well,” answered Miriam sadly; and then 
her mother went away. And after she was gone, 
Miriam sat down to write a few farewell words to 
Hugh Ferrars. 

“ Good-by, dear Hugh ; it is better I should see you 
no more ; but please remember that if ever you should 
want the money which you returned last night, it is 
ready waiting for you. I will keep it for you, and 
you can have it at any time. If you require it, write 
to my maid. Ford, inclosing a letter to me. And 
now farewell; farewell, dear Hugh, and may God 
keep you and watch over you. M. C.” 

This brief note written, Miriam addressed it to 
Private Dare, then rang for Ford, and requested 
the lady’s maid to post it. But Ford held up her 
hands in despair. 

“I dare not, Miss Miriam,” she said; “I really 
dare not ! Your mamma sent for me this morning, 
and forbade me positively to go out or leave the 


i 62 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


house on any account until we leave for London 
to-morrow. She said, ‘If you do, and I shall have 
you watched, I shall discharge you at once, and 
refuse to give you any character. So do so on 
your peril. ’ ” 

“I do not know what to do, then,” answered 
Miriam. “ Could you trust it to Banks?” 

“No, miss; I’m sure I couldn’t. If I gave 
Banks a letter to any soldier he’d think I’d written 
it, and he’d think nothing of opening it or putting 
it in the fire. He’s that jealous, he’s just like a 
madman, and no more to be trusted than a baby 
in arms.” 

“What can I do then? it must go.” 

“Wait till we get to London, Miss Miriam, and 
then I’ll find plenty of opportunities of slipping 
out of the hotel, or getting one of the strange 
waiters to post it for me; but as for trusting 
Banks, it’s not to be thought of.” 

Upon consideration, Miriam thought this would 
be the wisest plan. She therefore locked up the 
letter she had written with the mone}^ she had 
obtained from Sir James. At luncheon-time she 
went downstairs and tried, before her father’s eyes, 
to look as if nothing had happened. Mrs. Clyde 
had judiciously told the Colonel that he had better 
not say anything to Miriam about the storm. 

“ Her nerves had been shaken ever since she 
was ill,” she told him, “and it would only upset 
her if you told her about the painful scenes on the 
rocks, and as Sir James is coming this afternoon I 
want her to look well.” 


mirtam’s request. 


63 


So the Colonel said nothing to Miriam about 
the victims of the cruel sea; nothing of the gal- 
lantry of the soldier Dare. He shook hands -with 
his daughter and spoke kindly to her ; Miriam an- 
swered him quietly, and Mrs. Clyde’s easy tact 
did the rest. About three o’clock Sir James 
arrived. Mrs. Clyde was in the drawing-room 
with her daughter when he came, and received 
him with great cordiality. 

“ We are going to give you a surprise. Sir 
James,” she said smilingly, as she shook hands 
with him. 

“ And what is that?” he answered, smiling also. 

“ We are going, Miriam and I, to start for Town 
to-morrow by the mid-day train, to see after all 
Miriam’s smart frocks. Then the Colonel and I 
have determined to have the marriage in Town — 
if you do not object?” 

“Certainly, I do not object,” said Sir James. 

“ Well, I shall tell you our reasons for this 
change. You see, about here there are hosts of 
people who would expect to be invited to the wed- 
' ding, and this house is so small. Whereas, in 
Town, we need have no one but my daughter Joan 
and her husband, and an old friend or two, perhaps, 
of my husband’s. I don’t like fussy weddings, 
and Miriam does not like them.” 

“ I am sure I don’t,” said Sir James delightedly 
and honestly. “ All I want is Miriam, not a whole 
lot of people to stare at us.” 

“Then we are all of one mind,” answered Mrs. 
Clyde pleasantly ; “ and we will keep the day a 


64 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


secret until the great event is over. Now I think 
the Colonel will be wanting me, and I know,” she 
added smiling, “ that you young people wish me 
away.” 

So she left them. Sir James crossed over and 
took Miriam’s chill little hand tenderly in his. 

“I am so pleased about this, darling,” he said; 
“it’s so much jollier to be quiet, and have it all 
to ourselves. Don’t you think so, Miriam?” 

“Yes, I am sure I do,” she answered truthfully. 

He stood looking at her, still clasping her hand, 
and turning her diamond engagement ring gently 
round her slender third finger. His heart was 
full of her, and Miriam’s dark eyes fell before his 
eager gaze. 

“I’ll try to get leave at once,” he said pres- 
ently, “ and follow you up to Town immediately. 
We’ll go shopping together, Miriam : or shall we 
leave Mrs. Clyde to buy the frocks and the wed- 
ding gown, while we ” 

“And what shall we do?” asked Miriam, with a 
faint smile, as he paused. 

“Oh! I don’t care a bit as long as we are tq- 
gether; that’s all I care for, Miriam. If only I 
have you with me — that’s everything I want.” 

“ That is very foolish of you. Sir James.” 

“Don’t call me Sir James in that formal way, 
dear. Call me Jim — your own Jim.” 

“I wonder if I could,” said Miriam, a little 
wistfully, as she glanced shyly at his face. 

“ Of course you could ; only you are such a shy 
little girl. I know you don’t care for me as I 


Miriam’s request. 


65 


care for you, Miriam. No one could care so much, 
I think ; but still, in time — you will love me a lit- 
tle bit, dear?” 

“You — are very good,” said Miriam, with a 
strange choking feeling at her throat, and she put 
her hand again into his. Sir James stooped down 
and tenderly kissed it. 

“What a dear little hand!” he said; “my little 
hand; the hand that is to rest in mine, I hope, till 
we grow old and gray. Fancy this pretty dark 
hair, soft and white,” and he touched one of Mir- 
iam’s little curls as he spoke. “ But there will be 
no change in our hearts, Miriam — none, at least, 
in mine.” 

“ How can you tell?” said Miriam, and again 
she looked at him. 

“ I know,” he answered presently. “ I think of 
no one else, Miriam ; whatever I do your image 
is before me. That is not the sort of love that 
grows cold. Even if you were to cease to care for 
me, I should love you still.” 

“I shall not change,” said Miriam, in a low, 
almost a solemn tone; and these words made Sir 
James so happy and excited that the world seemed 
only full of bliss to him. 

He stayed to dinner, and Mrs. Clyde’s shrewd 
eyes saw that as far as he was concerned everything 
was going on as well as she could wish. Miriam 
was very quiet, but she looked handsome, and her 
mother tried to forget the haunting shadow that 
had pursued her for the last two days. At all 
events, she meant to fulfil her engagement, Mrs. 


66 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Clyde felt sure; and this was the great point. 
She would be Lady MacKennon, and Mrs. Clyde 
believed her incapable of disgracing her husband’s 
name. 

Thus the evening passed — the last evening that 
Mrs. Clyde intended Miriam should spend at New- 
brough-on-the-Sea until after her marriage. Sir 
James promised to see them off the next morning 
at Halstone, from which place they were going 
to start on their journey to Town. After he was 
gone, all was bustle and packing at the Colonel’s 
house. Miriam had little time to think, and when 
at last she did retire to rest she was so tired that 
she speedily fell asleep. But when she awoke the 
next morning, all the past rose again very vividly 
before her. 

“Poor, poor Hugh!” her heart whispered, as 
she looked out on the misty sea. But it could not 
be; it could never be, she also told herself. She 
must forget him ; and he must forget her in a new 
and far distant life; and Miriam gave a weary sigh. 

Most of the rest of the day was spent in travel- 
ling. Colonel Clyde and his wife and daughter 
drove to the station in the early morning, and the 
carriage passed the gates of the barracks where 
the soldier Dare was now quartered. Miriam just 
glanced at the whitewashed walls, and then turned 
away her head. She did not see the pale, set, 
handsome face at one of the windows, eagerly 
watching for the carriage. Dare had heard, some- 
how or other, that the Colonel’s wife and daughter 
were leaving Newbrough-on-the-Sea that morn- 


MIRIAM S REQUEST. 


167 


ing, and he easily guessed why Mrs. Clyde was 
taking Miriam so swiftly away. Ford had told 
him that they had both got into trouble by meeting 
him the night of the storm, and, of course, this 
was the upshot of it. The soldier smiled bitterly 
and with quivering lips as the carriage passed, 
and for a moment he caught a glimpse of Miriam’s 
face. Then he sat down moodily, and more than 
once his gray eyes fell on the sentry’s rifle below. 
He was weary of his life — this shamed and hidden 
life, the bitterness of which his heart only knew. 
Presently Dr. Reed came into the room, and as he 
approached Dare he stopped and looked seriously 
at him. There was something so dark, so tragic 
in the expression of the young man’s face that the 
doctor felt half alarmed. 

“Well, Dare, how are you this morning?’’ he 
said.’’ 

Dare rose and saluted, answering in a forced 
and husky voice : 

“ All right, sir.’’ 

“ You don’t look all right, anyhow. Is your leg 
paining you?’’ 

“I think not,” said Dare. He had forgotten 
all about it — had forgotten everything in the over- 
powering bitterness of this moment. And Dr. 
Reed at once understood this. He, too, knew that 
Mrs. Clyde and her daughter had just left New- 
brough-on-the-Sea; he had heard a rumor, also, 
that Miss Clyde was to be married while they were 
away, and he felt sorry for the pale young soldier 
before him. 


i68 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“We must all make the best of things, you 
know,” he said, by way of commonplace conso- 
lation. “We all have our troubles. Dare, and 
there are days when I believe the most of us wish 
we had never been born.” 

“ Why were we born?” said Dare darkly, for- 
getting for the moment his assumed character. 
“ Born against our wills to suffer temptations and 
miseries which we have no strength, or at least, 
not strength enough to control. ” 

“ But the chaplain would tell you we ought to 
find strength,” answered the doctor, with a smile. 

“ But what does he know of the temptations and 
passions of other men’s hearts?” continued Dare, 
with extraordinary bitterness. “ Is the flicker of 
a candle like a raging fire, or a pond like the deep 
sea? Yet he tells us all are alike to God.” 

“ Of course temperament makes a great differ- 
ence.” 

“ But we do not make our temperaments ! We 
are born as we are, and the heart only knoweth 
its own bitterness.” 

“You have strong feelings.” 

Dare gave a harsh, strange laugh. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I have that curse. Even as a 
boy I was headstrong and passionate, and when 
I grew to be a man ” 

“I understand,” and the doctor nodded. “Of 
course a woman was at the bottom of it.” 

“ I went, at least, to the devil for one ; but this 
is folly — I am forgetting myself.” 

“ Never mind. You must learn to take things 


Miriam’s request. 


169 


easier, Dare. After all, in a few years what will 
it matter?” And the doctor nodded and passed 
on. 

“In a few years,” muttered Dare, and then he, 
too, turned away; but the black cloud was still 
upon his brow. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE SISTERS. 

Two days after her arrival in town, Miriam 
herself posted the letter she had addressed to the 
soldier Dare at Newbrough-on-the-Sea. She had 
some little difficulty in doing this, for she was 
conscious that her mother watched her closely. 
Still she found her opportunity, and after the letter 
was gone she felt with a sorrowful heart that she 
could do no more. Meanwhile, Mrs. Clyde was 
going on actively with her preparations for the 
marriage. Sir James joined them in town, and he 
naturally was constantly with Miriam; and so the 
days glided away until it wanted but three to the 
one on which Miriam had promised to become Sir 
James’s wife. 

On this day — the third before the marriage 
— General Conray and his wife arrived in Town to 
be present at the ceremony. The sisters — Joan 
and Miriam — had not met for long, and they met 
now with deep though suppressed emotion. They 
clasped each other’s hands, they kissed each other, 
and in both their dark eyes there was a troubled 
look of secret meaning. There was an extraordi- 
nary likeness between them, and this struck their 
mother more vividly than usual. 

170 


THE SISTERS. 


171 

“How like you two are!” she exclaimed, look- 
ing at her daughters as they stood together. “ I 
declare you grow more like each other every year. ” 

“Yes, there is great likeness between them, 
certainly,” said General Conray, who was present 
at this meeting. Neither Joan nor Miriam spoke ; 
they just glanced at each other a moment, and 
that was all. 

Presently the General went out, and Mrs. Clyde 
was called away ; and the sisters were alone. Then 
again they looked at each other, and once more 
silently clasped each other’s hands. Miriam was 
the first to speak. 

“Joan,” she said at length, in a trembling voice, 
“ I — have so much to tell you.” 

“About Sir James?” asked Joan, looking ear- 
nestly at her sister. 

“Oh! no, no, Joan,” and Miriam’s voice sank to 
a whisper. “ Who do you think I have seen — have 
talked to?” 

“Not ” and Joan’s face suddenly paled. 

“ Not ” 

“ Hugh Ferrars!” whispered Miriam, below her 
breath, and her face, too, grew pale. “ I saw him 
at Newbrough.” 

“ At Newbrough !” echoed Joan ; “ what was he 
doing there? Did— he go to see you? O Miriam, 
surely not!” 

“We met by chance. O Joan, what I have 
gone through! One day there was an accident on 
the sands— a soldier was shot who was marking at 
a target— and I was there. I ran forward to try 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


172 

to help to stop the bleeding, and when I looked 
at the man’s face— it was Hugh Ferrars. ” 

“O Miriam! O Miriam!” and Joan clasped 
her hands despairingly together. 

“It was Hugh, Joan. He is a soldier; and — 
and he knew me, as I knew him. And he looked 
at me! Oh, I shall never forget that hour!” 

Suddenly Joan Conray’s face changed, and a 
strange light shone in her eyes. 

“I should have hated him!” she cried passion- 
ately, and she clenched her little hands. “ Did he 
die? I should have been glad to see him die!” 

“O Joan!” 

“Yes, Miriam; for did not that man kill my 
life — all that made my life worth living!” 

“Oh, hush! Oh, hush!” 

“And you kept silent?” went on Joan, still ex- 
citedly. “You screened him still?” 

“Yes. Joan, do not speak thus. You forget, 
you forget!” 

Joan Conray gave a kind of moan and flung her- 
self on a couch near, and covered her face with 
her hands. 

“Oh! poor Robert,” she moaned; “O Mir- 
iam, I cannot, cannot forget!” 

Miriam went up to her, and stooped down and 
kissed her brow. 

“Hush, hush! Joan,” she said. “Poor Robert 
Conray is at rest; but, Hugh; think of his mis- 
ery, his remorse, his wasted life!” 

Joan did not speak. She rocked herself to and 
fro as if in bitter grief. 


THE SISTERS. 


173 


“ He’s SO changed ; oh! so changed,” continued 
Miriam ; “ but I knew him at once, and I was 
afraid, if General Conraycame to Newbrough, that 
he also might recognize him. So I put off my mar- 
riage. I wanted to see him to tell him to go.” 

“ I thought he was abroad ; I hoped we should 
never see or hear of him again,” said Joan, now 
looking up. “And you saw him? Do you mean 
you spoke to him?” 

“ I met him twice and spoke to him. I met him 
at night — I pitied him so much; and — and I also 
could not quite forget ” 

“But, Miriam — oh, surely, Miriam!” and it was 
now Joan’s turn to look at her sister entreatingly ; 
“you surely won’t let this come between you and 
right?” 

Miriam raised her eyes and looked at her sister, 
and Joan understood the silent reproach, 

“I know! I know!” she cried, and once more 
she put her hand over her face. “ I have no right 
to speak; I am the last one that should dare to 
speak. But, Miriam, let my shipwreck, my broken 
heart, my broken life, be a warning at least to 
you.” 

Again the younger sister was silent for a few 
moments, and then she said, slowly and pain- 
fully : 

“ It is best not to speak of these things, Joan — 
of the past, even between ourselves. I would not 
have told you that I had seen him, Hugh, except 
that you must persuade — must try to prevent — 
General Conrayfrom going near Newbrough until 


174 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Hugh is gone. I got him the money to go at once. 
He would not take it, but he said he should try to 
be transferred to some regiment in India. He is 
best away ; best out of my sight ; and I pray and 
hope out of my mind ; best for his own sake and 
for mine; for — for I mean to try to be ” 

“A good wife,” said Joan eagerly, as Miriam 
paused with sudden hesitation and a blush. “ Oh, 
do! Oh, do! my dear,” she continued passionately; 
‘‘ God knows there is no real happiness — none, 
none — when even the fondest love is mixed with 
constant fear. I was always afraid, and Robert 
was always afraid for me — afraid and ashamed, 
too — when he remembered his uncle. But we 
were blinded; we thought at times only of each 
other, and you see the end! Death to Robert, 
and endless, unending misery to me.” 

“ You will get over it, dear Joan. You will for- 
get it, I pray and trust.” 

''Never! I shall never forget the dying look on 
Robert’s face — his last words. They haunt me 
day and night, Miriam ; they have burnt into my 
brain, and are killing me, slowly killing me. But 
I pray only my husband may never know ; not in 
this world, at least; and in the next he will know 
— if he knows at all — our temptations, our strug- 
gles — how, how we loved each other so long, so 
long ! From the time I went to Tyeford, the young 
wife of an old man, I loved Robert ; and to think 
that I caused his death — that my very love killed 
him!” 

“ General Conray must never know — will never 


THE SISTERS. 


175 


know,” said Miriam, who was deeply moved by 
her sister’s grief. 

“ But for you he would have known ; had you 
not come forward as you did, and said that it was 
you who were with poor Robert that night, he 
would surely have suspected me. The soldier who 
swore at the inquest that he had seen Captain 
Conray with a lady in the grounds at Tyeford, as 
you remember, said he thought it was the General’s 
wife ; but then you — you, my dear — came forward 
to save me. You said you were engaged to Rob- 
ert, that you were with him' shortly before the shot 
was fired that caused his death — and — and Richard 
believed this!” 

“ He must always believe it. I did it to save 
you, and would do it again. And, Joan, you 
should pity Hugh Ferrars, too. He was mad. 
He though the had been so cruelly, so disgrace- 
fully deceived. Robert Conray was his friend, his 
most trusted friend; and he knew how we had 
loved each other — Hugh and I. And when he 
thought I was false — doubly false — and Robert 
Conray falser still, he told me he grew mad. He 
fired the fatal shot, and then when he knew what 
he had done — when he recognized you — his bitter 
remorse was terrible, is terrible now, and he would 
have given himself up if I had not prayed him for 
your sake, for all our sakes, to go away.” 

Joan Conray moaned aloud. 

“ We must all bear it as best we can, ” went on 
Miriam, more bravely; “it has been very hard to 
bear since I saw Hugh again ; since my engage- 


176 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


ment. I have felt false to Sir James; have felt 
that I am deceiving him, and he is so good, so 
noble. It seems such a shame not to be quite 
honest to him. But I cannot be ; I must keep this 
miserable secret, for Hugh’s sake, for yours, for 
my own. He must never know, and General 
Conray must never know. Only you and me, Joan, 
and we must carry it to our graves. ” 

“ I wonder if I shall see him there— after I am 
dead?” said Joan, in an awe-struck whisper. 

“Don’t think of such things; try to forget 
them,” answered Miriam. 

“ But I cannot. I see Robert constantly before 
me ; I dream of him ; sometimes I fear I will talk 
of him in my sleep.” 

“O Joan!” 

“ I’ve a kind of haunting dread of this. Oh! if 
I did — O Miriam, if I did!” 

“You are nervous, my poor, poor Joan.” 

“Yes, I know; weak and nervous; and some- 
times Richard begins talking of Robert, wondering 
over his terrible fate, and I have to listen! Mir- 
iam, believe me, I lead a miserable life!” 

“And I ” began Miriam; but at this mo- 

ment one of the hotel waiters rapped at the room 
door, and the sisters started apart. 

“Sir James MacKennon is below,” said the 
waiter, “and wishes to see Miss Clyde,” and he 
handed Sir James’s card to Miriam as he spoke. 

“ You can show him up,” answered Miriam, and 
once more the sisters looked at each other and 
were still. 


CHAPTER XVL 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 

Women, as we all know, have the character of 
being much better actors in society than men. 
They hide their worries, their disappointments, 
their pains. ^ They smile over them, whereas men, 
as a rule, easily let us see' that something is amiss. 
Therefore, when Sir James, happy and smiling, 
entered the sitting-room where Joan and Miriam 
had just spoken such tragic words, he did not per- 
ceive their shadow on the fair faces of the two 
sisters. 

^ He had not seen Mrs. Conray before, and when 
Miriam introduced them he was struck, as most 
people were, by the strong likeness between them. 
True, Mrs. Conray was more fragile-looking ; but 
the features, the eyes, the height, were almost 
exactly the same. 

Sir James warmly held out his hand and took 
Joan’s when Miriam presented him. 

“ I am so pleased,” he said, in that kind, cordial 
manner of his, “ to make your acquaintance, Mrs. 
Conray — Miriam’s sister,” and he smiled at Mir- 
iam. 

“ I am very pleased,” answered Joan. 

12 177 


178 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Any one could tell you were sisters,” went on 
Sir James, still smiling. 

I am older than Miriam,” said Joan. 

“Not a great deal,” smiled Miriam. 

“ You both happily are at that age when years do 
not tell their tale,” answered Sir James. “ But I 
am very pleased indeed to know you, Mrs. Conray. ” 

They talked a little while on ordinary subjects 
after this, and then Joan rose in her usual languid 
way to leave the room. 

“ I feel a little tired with the journey, Miriam,” 
she said, “ and so I shall go and lie down for an 
hour. I shall see you again at dinner, I suppose. 
Sir James?” 

“I hope so,” he answered brightly; and then 
after he had opened the room door for Joan he re- 
turned to Miriam’s side. 

“Your sister is wonderfully like you,” he said, 
taking Miriam’s hand in his own; “but I am glad 
my darling looks a great deal stronger than Mrs. 
Conray.” 

“ I think Joan looks ill, too.” 

“She’s a very pretty woman, awfully pretty, 
but she looks delicate, and, as she said, tired.” 

“She is easily tired.” 

“ Poor little woman ! And are you too tired, 
dear, to go out for an hour with me?” 

“ Oh, no !” and so the betrothed pair went out to- 
gether. Sir J ames bought many pretty things, and 
ordered flowers, and took stalls for some favorite 
play. He was rich, and he was happy, and noth- 
ing pleased him so much as to spend his money in 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 


79 


pleasing Miriam. He never dreamt that the cold 
shadow of fear lay always athwart Miriam’s heart; 
never thought that the dark- eyed girl by his side 
hid away in her soul a tragic and gloomy past. 
Who can tell these things? Vice does as a rule 
lay its ugly finger on the human face, but many 
a dark story and storm will pass and leave no 
trace. When they returned to the hotel, presently, 
fair, stately, elegant, with shining jewels round 
her white swan-like throat, Joan Conray entered 
the room dressed' for dinner and the theatre after- 
ward. What did she look? A handsome young 
matron of whom her old husband might well be 
proud. There was a quiet dignity about this 
woman, who but a few hours ago had told her sis- 
ter that her heart lay dead in her murdered lover’s 
grave. Mrs. Clyde felt proud that evening of her 
two daughters ; and yet an uneasy feeling lingered 
in her mind regarding Miriam. But not for Joan. 
This acute woman could not look beneath the 
fair, serene, and pensive mask that General Con- 
ray’s wife habitually wore. 

“Joan is very dignified-looking,” she said that 
evening, a little later, to her husband, and Colonel 
Clyde assented with a smile. 

“Your sister looks quite content with her 
choice,” also remarked General Conray, a little 
later, to his wife. “ It is very well. I suppose 
she has quite forgotten poor Robert now?” 

“ I suppose so,” answered Joan, a little huskily, 
and she turned away her head. 

And so the next two days passed away— passed 


i8o 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


in buying presents and flowers. The General and 
the Colonel found many of their old military 
friends at their clubs ; Colonel Lowrey came to 
dine with the Clydes, and brought his offering 
for the bride also. They all seemed very happy 
and content, though Miriam looked somewhat 
pale, and the very day before her marriage some- 
thing occurred which considerably disturbed Mrs. 
Clyde. 

This arose from Ford giving formal notice to 
quit Mrs. Clyde’s service. Ford had been enjoy- 
ing herself in town also, and had already ensnared 
the affections of a young good-looking German 
waiter at the hotel. Now, seeing that her young 
mistress was actually about to become Lady 
MacKennon — of which Ford had had many doubts 
— she applied to Miriam to become her maid. 
Miriam, for reasons that we know of, had con- 
sented. 

Ford then had gone proudly to Mrs. Clyde with 
this information, and asked leave to depart with 
the bride. Mrs. Clyde, who had engaged a maid 
for Miriam, felt exceedingly annoyed. 

V I must speak to my daughter about this. Ford,” 
she said. “ Do you say Miss Miriam has asked 
you to accompany her abroad?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Clyde,” replied Ford demurely 

“I shall inquire into it,” said Mrs. Clyde, and 
on the first opportunity that she had she spoke to 
Miriam very seriously on the subject. 

“ Miriam, my dear, I wish to speak to you about 
Ford,” she said. 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 


i8i 


“Yes, mother,” answered Miriam. 

“ She tells me you have asked her to go with you 
to Paris. ” 

“ Yes ; it was an old promise that when I married 
she was to be my maid. ” 

“My dear,” began Mrs. Clyde, very gravely, 
and then she paused. “ I do not approve of your 
choice, Miriam,” she added. “I do not think 
Ford is efficient enough to be your maid in your 
future position. ” 

“ I am accustomed to her, mother ; I do not care 
to have any new woman about me. ” 

“ But, my dear, consider — Ford is not a steady 
young woman; and then she might talk of what 
had better never be mentioned in your husband’s 
•household.” 

Miriam’s pale face flushed. 

“I understand what you mean, mother,” she 
said ; “ but you need not be afraid. ” 

“ I am not afraid of you ; do not mistake ; but I 
am afraid of her idle tongue. Far better to have 
some one with you who has only known you in 
your matronhood. ” 

“ I have promised Ford.” 

“ But you can easily get out of such a promise. 
I have engaged a maid for you. Take my advice, 
Miriam; accept this stranger and not Ford.” 

Mrs. Clyde spoke urgently, but Miriam was 
quietly determined. 

“ It is settled, mother, with Ford, ” she said, “ and 
it will be no inconvenience to you, I hope, as you 
have engaged another maid. When you spoke of 


i 82 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


it the other day I thought this other maid would 
do for you.” 

“I wish you may not regret this, Miriam,” re- 
plied Mrs. Clyde warningly. “ I do not like Ford ; 
I do not trust her. Take care you do not trust 
her too much.” 

But Miriam knew, as her mother said this, that 
she had already been forced to trust Ford “ too 
much.” She knew, too, to a certain extent, she 
would be obliged to go on trusting her. Therefore 
she was forced to disregard her mother’s warning, 
and Mrs. Clyde left her room with that strange 
uneasiness in her heart about her daughter’s future 
considerably augmented. 

The marriage morning dawned — and the sun 
was shining — and everything seemed to look 
promising and prosperous for the bride. It was 
a quiet wedding, but the stalwart, good-looking 
bridegroom seemed so completely happy, and the 
bride so fair, that every one who looked on them 
ought to have been satisfied. That Sir James was, 
there could be no doubt ; and the shadow of hidden 
fear was not visible on Miriam’s face. Yet as 
she entered the church in her trailing white gar- 
ments, leaning on her father’s arm, she did for a 
moment glance quickly round. But the dark, 
handsome face that perhaps she dreaded to see was 
not there. Only a few spectators, attracted by 
the carriages outside ; only the eager lover waiting 
for her within. And nothing interrupted the cer- 
emony. There, in the presence of her nearest 
friends — her father and mother, her sister and her 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 


husband — Miriam Clyde promised to be James 
MacKennon’s wife, “and forsaking all other, keep 
truly unto him. ” 

Joan Conray heard these solemn words, and gave 
a little shudder, knowing how she had kept her 
troth. The gray-haired General, whose wife she 
was, looked at her with softened eyes, remember- 
ing the day when they, too, had taken these vows, 
and when his young wife had been given to him 
“to love and cherish.” And in his way — for he 
was naturally a reserved and somewhat stern man 
— General Conray had truly loved his wife. She, 
to do her justice, had never fathomed the depth 
and strength of his feelings toward her. She had 
married him against her girlish will ; she had al- 
ways thought of him as an old man; and her 
heart had ever been cold to him. But she re- 
spected and feared him. She dreaded above all 
things that he should ever suspect that dark secret 
and its tragic end that had blighted her life. She 
gave him no cause for suspicion now; she lived, 
indeed, as it were above it, and the General was 
proud of her beauty and her stainless name. 

Presently it was all over. Lady MacKennon 
passed down the aisle on her husband’s arm, and 
the small party returned to the hotel for the wed- 
ding breakfast. Here they were joined by Colonel 
Lowrey and two other old comrades of Colonel 
Clyde’s. All the men of the party belonged to 
the Service, and had grown gray in it, except the 
bridegroom. Sir James’ spirits were absolutely 
boyish during the meal which followed. He was 


184 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


elated beyond measure, as it were, for had he not 
won his heart’s desire? He was in the morning 
of his life, and these gray-haired soldiers around 
him smiled a little grimly, perhaps, as they 
watched his exuberant content. They knew, if he 
did not, that shipwreck may come on the life voy- 
age as the storm strikes the bravest vessels on the 
sea. 

Nevertheless, Colonel Lowrey, when he arose to 
propose the health of the bride and bridegroom, 
spoke only of the roseate things of earth. He was 
an old bachelor, kindly but frosty, and had known 
Colonel Clyde’s children in their long clothes. 
He also liked Sir James: liked his ingenuous 
and open devotion to his young wife. 

“It is like a glimpse into the past,’’ he told 
them, “ and makes old soldiers, like the rest of us,’’ 
and he looked smilingl}?" round, “ recall the time, 
when we, too, did not think of our wine, nor our 
dinners, nor our easy-chairs, but of bright eyes 
and rosy lips, like our gallant bridegroom is doing 
now. Certainly Sir James MacKennon has some 
excuse for losing his head, and I only wish I was 
young enough once more to lose mine ! But no 
such luck. I admire a pretty face still, but I look 
upon it very calmly and soberly, probably from 
the fact that no pretty face ever looks at me ; or, 
if by any chance a pair of bright eyes were to rest 
on my furrowed visage, they would rest very 
calmly and soberly too ! I have let my time for 
good things slip past, but Sir James has taken time 
by the forelock. Here is this lucky young man. 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 


185 

married to a lovely young girl, in the very bloom 
of her womanhood ; and no wonder he looks de- 
lighted. As for the bride, she was a sweet little 
baby not so many years ago, my friends, and in 
those days I once had the privilege of kissing her, 
which I must honestly say she resented so deeply 
that she screamed for an hour afterward. I know 
I never attempted to take such a liberty again ; 
and ever after at the sight of me she hid her face 
on her ayah’s shoulder. But I must not go on 
with these tender recollections. You all know 
what she is to me; the daughter of an old and 
valued friend, and I should not have been at 
all pleased if I had not liked her husband. But 
I do like him, and so I now propose the health and 
happiness, and long life, and every blessing to 
them, of Sir James and Lady MacKennon. If all 
the good things come to them that I wish, their 
cup will be full indeed.” 

Colonel Lowrey, having ended his speech, which 
was received with much cheering and good humor, 
sat down, and Sir J ames presently rose to reply to it. 

“Colonel Lowrey, ladies and gentlemen,” he 
said smilingly, “ Colonel Lowrey has just told you 
I look very much delighted. I do not know what 
I look, but I know what I feel. I feel perfectly 
happy, and very proud of myself; for have I not 
won the sweetest and loveliest bride that I think 
a maru-ever’did win? And she was not very easy 
to win, either; so it’s no wonder I am a little bit 
off my head. Therefore I won’t trespass any 
further on your time, as I cannot be expected to 


i86 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


talk very sensibly to-day. But I thank you most 
heartily in the name of my young wife and myself, 
for all the kind things you have said of us, and I 
can only add that I hope my wife may some day 
soon have the pleasure of seeing you all in her 
new home at Kintore. ” 

These simple, kindly words were naturally very 
well received, and, indeed, the whole entertain- 
ment passed off in the pleasantest and most joyous 
fashion. Then the young pair started on their 
journey. Before they left Miriam had a word to 
whisper in her sister’s ear. 

“ Forget what I have told you about Hugh,” she 
said ; “ let it always be a secret between us. ” 

“ Yes,” answered Joan, and she clasped Miriam’s 
hand tightly, and for a moment the two stood 
looking at each other with steadfast eyes. Then 
came all the excitement of leave-taking, and finally 
the carriage disappeared that bore the bride and 
bridegroom away. It was all over, and Mrs. Clyde 
breathed a little sigh of relief. Then a curious 
dulness fell upon the company. The men lit their 
cigars and presently went out, having arranged 
to dine with Colonel Lowrey at his club. Only 
Joan and Mrs. Clyde remained of the party, and 
almost for the first time since she had joined them 
in town, Mrs. Clyde had an opportunity of speak- 
ing in private to her eldest daughter. 

The two ladies were sitting together by the fire, 
as the early winter gloaming gathered round them, 
and presently, after some desultory conversation, 
Mrs. Clyde said : 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 1 87 

“Joan, Miriam is married now, and therefore 
it does not matter much; but still there is some- 
thing I should like to ask you about that unfortu- 
nate young man, Robert Conray, to whom she 
was first engaged.” 

Joan started, and her lips began to quiver, but 
she did not speak. ' 

“ Do you really think they ever were engaged?” 
continued Mrs. Clyde. “Miriam said so at the 
inquest, I know; but she had never hinted such a 
thing in her letters to me ; and that other admirer 
of hers, Mr. Ferrars — was there not some suspi- 
cion ” 

“O mother, don’t speak of that dreadful time!” 
cried Joan, starting to her feet. “ What good does 
it do now? Miriam is married. It is best not to 
speak of these things any more.” 

“ My dear Joan, do not excite yourself. I have 
a reason for asking these questions. Of course 
you will never hint or breathe what I am going to 
tell you to a living soul. But an extraordinary 
thing happened just before we left Newbrough- 
on-the-Sea for Miriam’s marriage. There was a 
dreadful storm one night, and we were all dis- 
turbed by it. Miriam had gone to bed some time 
before, I supposed, but to my astonishment, when 
I opened my bedroom door I met her drenched 
with rain and half-fainting. It was a terrible 
shock to me; she must have been out for some 
purpose; to meet some one on such a night; and 
who could it be? None of the young men down 
there, I believe; and I have sometimes fancied 


i88 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


could it have been this Ferrars that she thus met 
in secret? He disappeared, did he not, after young 
Conray’s murder?” 

“I know nothing — can tell you nothing,” an- 
swered Joan desperately. 

“ But, my dear, there is no harm in you and me 
discussing it. General Conray disapproved of 
this Ferrars, did he not, as a lover for Miriam?” 

“Yes; he was poor and in debt they said; and 
— Richard did not like it.” 

“ So he wrote to us at the time of his nephew’s 
unfortunate death. It was never quite known, 
was it, whether Robert Conray was murdered, or 
had committed suicide?” 

Joan visibly shuddered. 

“ I see it agitates you, my dear, talking about 
it,” said Mrs. Clyde calmly; “and it certainly 
was a dreadful thing to happen in your own 
grounds. Perhaps Miriam might have quarrelled 
with him, or refused him, and he may have shot 
himself in a moment of desperation, for no doubt 
she is very attractive to men; or it may have been 
this Mr. Ferrars. At all events, we ought to be 
very thankful she is married. Of course Sir James 
knows nothing of this unfortunate affair, and he 
is, no doubt, very much attached to her.” 

“Yes; may she be happy,” said Joan briefly, 
and then she left the room. Her mother thought 
after she was gone that her manner was very 
strange. 

“Joan is so odd at times,” reflected Mrs. Clyde; 
“ yet she and her old General seem to get on very 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 


89 


well. I wonder if she knows more about Miriam 
than I do ; at all events, she does not mean to tell. ” 

Therefore Mrs. Clyde determined to ask no fur- 
ther questions. The mother and daughter had 
tea together and then dinner, but Mrs. Clyde said 
nothing more about Miriam’s former lovers. 
They talked of Sir James, and of the Dowager 
Lady MacKennon, and wondered how Miriam 
would like her new people and her new home. 

“ She is a proud, old-fashioned dame, to judge 
by her letters, I should say,” said Mrs. Clyde, 
“ and very devoted to her only son. But I do not 
wonder at that; Sir James to my mind is simply 
perfect.” 

“ He seems to have a very good heart,” answered 
Joan. 

“And is quite clever enough for a husband,” 
smiled Mrs. Clyde. “ Either remarkably hand- 
some men, or remarkably clever ones, seldom 
make good husbands. They are too much flat- 
tered, and they cannot live without it; but Sir 
James is quite good looking enough, and has quite 
brains enough to satisfy any reasonable woman.” 

They talked in this fashion a little while longer, 
and then Joan said she was tired and would go to 
bed. But her mother sat up until her husband and 
General Conray returned. They had enjoyed their 
evening, and after having dined with Colonel Low- 
rey, the three old comrades had gone to see 
some new play, and sat discussing it over their 
cigars and whiskey-and-sodas, and describing it to 
Mrs. Clyde. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


190 

“Joan was tired and went to bed early,” Mrs. 
Clyde told General Conray. 

“ The excitement of the wedding tired her, I 
suppose,” answered the General; “and Joan very 
soon gets tired now. I don’t know how it is; I 
must try not to disturb her when I go upstairs, as 
I dare say she is fast asleep. ” 

“She looked very pretty to-day,” said Mrs. 
Clyde. 

“She is always pretty,” replied the General; 
and presently, when he went upstairs, and as 
noiselessly as possible entered the room, he 
thought he had never seen Joan look so fair. 

A soft, warm, subdued light filled the room, and, 
with her head resting on the pillows, Joan lay 
asleep. Her dark hair was unbound, and one 
white arm, bare to the elbow, rested lightly out- 
side the down coverlet. She was a lovely picture, 
with lips slightly apart, and her dark lashes rest- 
ing on her round, smooth cheeks. Her husband 
stole nearer, and almost held his breath, so afraid 
was he to awake the fair woman that he loved. He 
stood watching her — watching her breathing softly, 
and the curves of her white throat. Presently she 
stirred slightly, and murmured a word in her 
sleep. The General — the gray-haired old man — 
bent his head down and listened tenderly. 

^'Robert” he heard in plaintive accents; Rob- 
ert! ” He started and drew back. 

The slight noise that he made awoke her, and 
she opened her dark eyes languidly and looked at 
her husband. 


THE FIRST DOUBT. 


I9I 


“Were you dreaming, Joan?” he asked. 

“I don’t know; I think so,” she answered, still 
looking at him. 

“You were talking in your sleep,* you men- 
tioned poor Robert’s name,” continued the Gen- 
eral. 

Suddenly a red wave rushed to the fair face, 
dying it crimson from the white brow to the white 
throat, and a great look of fear stole into her eyes. 

“I was dreaming — of Miriam,” she faltered. 
“ Have you been long here?” 

“ No, ” said the General ; but a strange, cold feel- 
ing crept into his heart as he spoke. The first 
dawn of a miserable doubt. 


CHAPTER XVTI. 


A HAUNTING DREAD. 

General Conray slept little that night. He 
lay revolving in his mind the circumstances of 
Robert Conray ’s death. They haunted him with 
grim distinctness. He saw again his dead 
nephew’s face ; he heard the evidence at the in- 
quest, and the doubts as to how he had died. 

. It had never been satisfactorily cleared up. 
Captain Robert Conray, a handsome, distin- 
.guished-looking young man, who at this time held 
an appointment on General Conray’s staff, had one 
morning been found dead in the grounds of Tye- 
ford Hall, where the General lived, with a bullet 
wound in his throat. He had been dead for 
hours, the doctors said, when he was discovered, 
and whether he had died by his own hands or been 
murdered remained a mystery, as his wound, the 
doctors also stated, might have been self-inflicted. 
But no weapon was found near him, and one wit- 
ness — an orderly, who was passing through the 
grounds — stated that about ten o’clock in the 
evening he had seen Captain Conray in the 
grounds with a lady, whom he believed to be the 
General’s wife. But Miriam Clyde then came 
forward and stated that it was she^ not her sister, 
192 


A HAUNTING DREAD. 


93 


that the orderly had seen with Captain Conray, 
She had met him in the grounds about ten o’clock, 
and parted with him an hour later, leaving him 
alive and well. She added that she was then en- 
gaged to be married to him, though this fact was 
known only to her sister Joan. She was asked 
if she had had any quarrel with him, and she 
said no. Joan had confirmed this statement. 

But after a while, grave suspicion had fallen on 
a brother officer of the deceased, named Hugh 
Ferrars. This young man was known to be an 
admirer of Miriam Clyde, and was said to have 
been passionately in love with her. But General 
Conray had disapproved of his suit, and had for- 
bidden him his house. And from the morning 
that Robert Conray was found dead in the grounds 
of Tyeford Hall, Lieut. Hugh Ferrars had dis- 
appeared. At first this did not attract any atten- 
tion. He had been on leave at the time, and only 
when his leave expired were inquiries made about 
him. These were all in vain. He had been stay- 
ing in town when he was last heard of, and his 
luggage was found at the hotel he had lived at, 
but the man himself had vanished. He had never 
been seen or heard of since the day that Robert 
Conray had died. He left the hotel that day, say- 
ing he would return on the following day; but he 
never came back. His people were communi- 
cated with, but they knew nothing. 

His father was the clergyman of a country par- 
ish in Yorkshire, and during part of his leave he 
had been at home. Then he had gone up to 

13 


94 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Town, and they had heard nothing of him since. 
Presently, people began to talk of him in connec- 
tion with Robert Conray’s mysterious death. 
They had been intimate friends, but if both had 
been lovers of. Miriam Clyde, here was a motive 
at once for Robert Conray’s murder. At all 
events, a warrant was finally issued for his appre- 
hension, but the police were completely baffled. 
No trace of him could be found, and he had passed 
away from the knowledge of his fellow-men as 
completely as if he were dead. His parents be- 
lieved him to be dead, and mourned for him; but 
General Conray had never been quite satisfied on 
this point. True, he might have been robbed and 
murdered, and thrown into the dark waters of the 
river, rolling noiselessly through the great city, 
and hiding some of its misery and sin. This was 
the theory of the hapless country parson, who came 
up to Town to assist in the search, and stood hope- 
lessly on bridge after bridge peering down into 
the Thames, believing that his son’s body lay 
somewhere in its gloomy depths. 

All this had happened nearly two years ago, and 
had faded out of the recollection of most people, 
but General Conray had never forgotten his 
nephew’s sudden death, and he lay thinking of it 
now. That look of fear in Joan’s eyes, when 
he had asked her if she were dreaming of “ poor 
Robert,” had driven an uneasy pang of strange 
doubt into his heart. 

And to Joan his words had brought absolute 
dread. She had told Miriam she was always 


A HAUNTING DREAD. 


95 


dreaming of Robert Conray, and now she had 
spoken of him in her sleep ! A haunting fear of 
this had possessed her ever since his death. What 
if this grim secret, that the two sisters had hidden 
in their hearts so long, were to be betrayed by 
babbling words she could not control. Joan shud- 
dered when she thought of it. She must not sleep, 
she told herself; she* must lie awake if it killed 
her. And she did lie awake — lay pinching the 
white flesh of her arms to keep the. drowsy feel- 
ings of weariness away. Oh ! the long, miserable 
hours! The General slept at last, but not Joan. 
The gloomy November dawn found her pale, hag- 
gard-eyed, but alert. And she noticed that dur- 
ing the day that followed the General looked at 
her more than once with an expression in his eyes 
she had never seen there before. Could any sus- 
picions of the truth have entered his heart? Joan 
told herself this was impossible. Still her nerves 
felt shattered, and her sleepless night had wearied 
her so that in the afternoon she declined to go out 
with either her mother or her husband, but lay 
' down and took the rest she so much needed. For 
she must not sleep during the night. Joan had 
set herself this task, and for two more nights she 
kept to her resolution. They were the last two 
nights they were to spend in Town, the Clydes re- 
turning to Newbrough-on-the-Sea, and the Gen- 
eral and his wife to Tyeford Hall. 

Joan was delicate, and this enforced sleepless- 
ness tald greatly on her health. Both her mother 
and her husband felt anxious about her during 


196 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


these last few days in town; but Joan made no 
complaints. Then the wedding party broke up, 
and Joan and her husband started for Tyeford, 

She felt so weary on the journey it was all she 
could do to keep herself awake in the train. Her 
eyes closed involuntarily, and she could scarcely 
hold up her head. It was late in the day before 
they reached the station nearest the General’s 
house. Then came a long drive in the dark, and 
by the time they reached Tyeford Joan felt com- 
pletely exhausted. 

She sighed wearily as she entered her comfort- 
able and well-furnished home. The General had 
taken Tyeford Hall, when he had been appointed 
to the Southern District which he commanded, and 
he had brought his young wife there as a bride. 
It stood in extensive and well-kept grounds, and 
from the upper windows you had a glimpse of the 
sea. It was in these grounds that the tragic death 
of Robert Conray had occurred, and Miriam had 
never visited her sister since. 

Joan thought of Robert Conray as they drove 
up to the house; thought of him as she entered 
the well-lighted hall, as she walked up the broad 
staircase. To her the whole place was haunted 
by his memory. Yet she had never suggested to 
the General any wish to leave it. He had taken 
it for a term of years, and it was conveniently sit- 
uated for his command, being only about half a 
mile distant from the barracks. 

A letter from Miriam, the bride, awaited Joan. 
The General brought this up to her after he had 


A HAUNTING DREAD. 


197 


opened the letter-bag. Joan put out her hand 
languidly to receive it, and as she did so her hus- 
band noticed how extremely pale and tired she 
looked. 

“You are quite done up, Joan,” he said ; “all this 
business about the wedding has been too much for 
you; you must have a good rest to-night.” 

“Yes,” answered Joan, all the while determined 
that she would take none. 

“Well, what does the bride say?” went on the 
General. 

Then Joan opened her letter, which was from 
Paris. Miriam wrote cheerfully, and there was 
no allusion in it to the past, which both the sisters 
regarded with such shrinking dread. She men- 
tioned her husband’s name once or twice, and told 
her sister what lovely furs James had bought her. 
“ He is very good and kind to me, ” she added, “ and 
very unselfish. ” 

“ She seems all right,” said Joan, after she had 
finished reading the letter, and then she handed 
it to the General, who also read it, and then laid 
it on the table beside his wife. 

“Well, I hope she will be happy,” he said. 
“She has got, I believe, a good husband, and I 
trust she will make a good wife.” 

Joan did not speak. The General laid his hand 
upon her shoulder. 

“And you, poor little woman,” he said, “must 
go to bed directly after dinner. You are dead 
tired, and nothing but sound sleep will refresh 
you.” 


98 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


He left the room after this, and Joan then took 
some sal-volatile to keep herself up, and dressed 
for dinner. After dinner the General insisted 
she should retire for the night. 

“ I have a lot of papers to go through,” he said, 
“ and it will be twelve or later before I have done. 
You must go to bed at once. Come, Joan, it is 
quite time you were there.” 

It passed through Joan’s mind that she might 
indulge in the sleep she so much required before 
her husband came upstairs. She was utterly ex- 
hausted, and her eyes were heavy with drowsi- 
ness. She felt she would give almost anything 
for an hour’s sleep. 

“Very well,” she said, “I will go;” and she 
rose and left the room, while her husband went to 
hisdibrary to work. 

Joan was so tired that three minutes after she 
was in bed she was fast asleep — asleep when 
twelve o’clock came, and the General quietly en- 
tered the room. She was sleeping the deep sleep 
of utter exhaustion, and she never heard her hus- 
band’s footsteps. She looked worn and white, he 
thought, and he made as little noise as possible, 
and very soon afterward he also was asleep. 

When he woke it was morning. He awoke with 
a start, and glancing quickly round he heard 'Joan’s 
voice speaking in loud and unnatural tones. He 
looked at her attentively, and saw by the dim 
light she was still asleep. She was dreaming, but 
her features wore an expression of great suffering, 
even anguish. 


A HAUNTING DREAD. I99 

“ Don’t look like that — Robert! Robert!” she 
cried. “ Robert, speak to me — say one word!” 

She stretched out her arms as she spoke, as if 
entreatingly ; her voice was full of intense pain, 
and the General drew back in sudden dread and 
listened with bated breath. 

“ Robert !” she wailed out once more ; “ Robert ! ” 
and then her expression changed. “ Why did you 
do it?” she asked, with startling suddenness, as if 
addressing some invisible presence. “ He did you 
no wrong; he was mine, not Miriam’s — only 
mine!” 

There was silence in the room after this, a si- 
lence that the sleeping woman broke no more. 
But the gray-haired man by her side rose and 
crept away ; the iron had entered into his soul. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 

Joan went down to breakfast at the usual hour. 
Her dream-haunted sleep had refreshed her in 
spite of all its horrors. But her husband was not 
in the room, nor did he return during the day 
until dinnertime. This frightened Joan, for the 
General was always thoughtful of her, and she be- 
gan to fear that something was amiss. At dinner 
time she was sur^ of this. The General was so 
cold and stern in his manner, and he made no ex- 
planation nor apology for his absence. 

“You have been away all day,” said Joan, tim- 
idly addressing him. 

“Yes,” he replied briefly, and during dinner he 
scarcely spoke. Then Joan thought of her long 
sleep, and wondered if her tongue had spoken in 
her dreams. She dare not ask the man who sat 
opposite to her with unbending brow; and the 
General never alluded to it. Joan’s sleeping 
words had smote him sharper than a sword. He 
began to remember little things. Joan’s com-, 
plete prostration when Robert Conray died, and 
Miriam’s firmer mood, though she declared the 
dead man had been her plighted lover. Good 
God! had this fair woman deceived him all these 


200 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 


201 


years^ Had she loved Robert Conray, and not her 
sister? Had he shot himself in the shame and 
anguish of his sin? Filled with distracting doubts 
and fears, he knew not how to act. Joan sattrem^ 
bling, knowing that something had happened — 
that something stood between her and her hus- 
band’s love. 

When she went to her room at night the ser- 
vants were conveying a bed into the General’s 
dressing-room. 

“ What is this for?” she asked. 

“ The General ordered it to be put here, ma’am,” 
replied one of the servants, and Joan said no more. 
She sat down, half-benumbed in her room, and put 
her hands over her face. Had the blow fallen? 
What did he mean? And Joan moaned aloud. 

Hours afterward she heard the General go into 
his dressing-room, and lock the adjoining door. 
Then she crept to bed, but dared not sleep. This 
went on for many days and nights. The General 
barely spoke to her, and Joan lived a miserable 
life of doubt and fear. But the strain was too 
great to last. Joan’s health broke down, and when 
the doctor was sent for, he said she had fever. 
She grew worse and worse, and one night became 
violently delirious. Her maid, who was watching 
her, got frightened, and ran down to the General, 
who was in the library, for assistance. 

Then he went upstairs, and stood by Joan’s 
bed, who started up when she saw him. Her eyes 
were shining with fever, her face was flushed, and 
she evidently did not recognize him. 


202 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“Who are you?” she asked. 

“Joan ” began the General, but with a wild, 

unnatural laugh Joan waved him away. 

“ You need not stay,” she said ; “ you are an old 
man! Call Robert — Robert Conray — my dead 
lover.” 

The General started and gnawed his lips under 
his white moustaches. 

“ Call Robert Conray and the man who killed 
him!” went on Joan, yet more excicedly. “ He is 
hiding, the coward who killed my Robert. Miriam 
knows where he is hid. Ask her ; she has him safe. ” 

“ Go from the room ; I will watch her,” said the 
General with pale, faltering lips, addressing the 
maid; “she is best kept very quiet when she is 
wandering thus. ” 

So the maid went away, and the husband and 
wife were alone. Once more the General ad- 
dressed her. 

“Joan, is there any truth in this?” he said, “or 
are they but dreams?” 

Joan’s face softened strangely. 

“ Dreams?” she repeated. “ I see Robert in my 
dreams, and the man who killed him.” 

“ Who was the man?” asked the General sternly. 

“Hugh Ferrars,” answered Joan readily; “and 
Miriam hid him.” 

“ Where did she hide him?” 

Joan put her hand to her head as if trying to 
recollect. 

“Somewhere by the sea,” she said. “I can’t 
remember, but somewhere by the sea.” 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 203 

“And he did this?” said the General darkly. 
“ He shot Robert Conray. Why did he do it?” 

“ He shot him, and he died — he died!” moaned 
Joan, beginning to wring her hands, and fling 
herself to and fro in the bed. “ He tried to speak 
— he looked at me. Don’t you know my gown 
was all blood — blood! Miriam burnt it. It was 
Robert’s blood. It drained right down into my 
heart!” 

“My God!” muttered the General, below his 
breath, “this is too terrible!” 

“ Why do you stare so !” now asked the delirious 
woman, peering in her husband’s pale face with 
her gleaming eyes. “ Did you know Robert? He 
was not old like you — he was young— there was 
none like him — none, none!” And once more she 
wrung her hands, and then went on with her bab- 
bling words. 

The General asked no more questions. He sat 
there as if turned to stone, listening to Joan tell- 
ing again and again her pitiful story. It had 
burnt into her brain, as she told Miriam, and now, 
when reason had lost its sway, the one dominating 
idea was ever on her tongue. .She rambled on for 
hours; telling the stern gray-haired man who was 
watching her how she used to meet Robert Conray 
in the still gardens. How they had loved each 
other, and how he had died. At last. General 
Conray could bear it no longer. He started up and 
rang the bell, and bade the servants go for the doc- 
tor — bring him at once. When the doctor came he 
gently shook his head after he had examined her. 


204 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“The fever is running very high to-night,” he 
said, “she must be constantly watched.” 

Then the unhappy woman began again the old 
story of Robert Conray’s death. The doctor lis- 
tened, and the General bowed his gray head and 
covered his face with his hand. 

“ That unfortunate occurrence has evidently got 
on her mind,” said the doctor. He, too, knew 
this tragic story, and how the General’s nephew 
had been found cold and stiff in the early morn- 
ing in the grounds of this very house. There 
might be some truth in all this, and there might 
not. At all events, he spoke of Joan’s wild words 
as the mere ramblings of delirium. He stayed 
with her for some time, and he said he would send 
two nurses in the morning. She must be watched 
night and day. 

Joan was very ill for weeks after this; so ill that 
her father and mother were telegraphed for; but 
when they arrived she had sunk into a state of 
listless apathy. She did not rave now, or talk of 
her dead lover. She lay with her eyes half closed, 
and rarely spoke. She seemed to recognize her 
parents, but without interest. Mrs. Clyde tried 
to talk to her about Miriam, but Joan never an- 
swered. 

“ Would you not like to see her, my dear?” said 
Mrs. Clyde. “ She will soon be home now, and I 
am sure she would come and see you at once if 
you wish her to do so.” But still Joan made no 
reply. 


A FEV'ERED BRAIN. 


205 


General Conray was standing in the room when 
Mrs. Clyde said that, and he presently turned 
round and addressed Mrs. Clyde. 

“ When did you say Lady MacKennon would re- 
turn?” he asked. 

“ They were to cross to-day, and she is going 
straight to Scotland to be introduced to her hus- 
band’s mother,” answered Mrs. Clyde. “But I 
am sure if Joan wishes to see her she would come 
here first. ” 

“ I do not think it would be advisable,” said the 
General. Then he left the room and Joan closed 
her sunken eyes. 

A letter came from Miriam the next day to in- 
quire about her, and Mrs. Clyde answered it 
guardedly. Miriam knew Joan had been ill, but 
not how seriously ill she had been, and was. Mrs. 
Clyde thought it kinder not to make Miriam anx- 
ious about her sister during her honeymoon. But 
Miriam had been anxious in spite of this, and 
when she heard her mother and her father were 
at Tyeford she grew more anxious still. 

But Mrs. Clyde’s letter from the General’s 
house, after she had seen Joan, was on the whole 
reassuring. Joan was weak, but recovering, Mrs. 
Clyde wrote, and the General did not think it ad- 
visable for them to have any more company in the 
house at present. Joan had to be kept perfectly 
quiet, but when she was stronger she hoped that 
Miriam and her husband could come to see her. 

Mrs. Clyde added this apparent message from 
Joan (who had not sent it) because Miriam had 


2o6 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


said something -about seeing Joan before she went 
to Scotland. But after she received her mother’s 
letter Miriam and Sir James decided to go direct 
to Kintore, and accordingly they only stayed two 
days in Town, and then proceeded north. 

Shall we look at them for a moment as they sat 
side by side in the railway carriage on this jour- 
ney to Miriam’s future home? On Sir James’s 
face there was absolute content ; and what on 
Miriam’s? She looked very sweet and fair 
wrapped in the rich furs that had been purchased 
by Sir James’ lavish hand. She looked, too, in 
her husband’s face gratefully, almost fondly. 
The weeks they had spent together had certainly 
drawn her heart nearer to him. It was impossi- 
ble, indeed, for a loving, sympathetic nature like 
Miriam’s to remain quite cold to any one so com- 
pletely kind and affectionate as vSir James. She 
had not been used to much tenderness and con- 
sideration at home. Mrs. Clyde had always been 
the most important personage at the Comman- 
dant’s house at Newbrough-on-the-Sea. Now Mir- 
iam found herself not only surrounded by new 
luxuries, but by the sincerest affection and love. 
He was always giving her some pleasant surprise; 
always thinking how he could please her. She 
had not forgotten her first love for the unhappy 
man whose mad jealousy had so nearly ship- 
wrecked her young life. But she undoubtedly 
had some feeling very like affection for Sir James. 
And he seemed perfectly happy. He had no 
misgivings nor fears regarding their future life. 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 


207 


“ I am glad I can make him so happy,” Miriam 
often thought in these early married days; and if 
a dark shadow sometimes stole over her face she 
always tried to smile the cloud away in the pres- 
ence of Sir James. 

He was naturally anxious that she should make 
a favorable impression on his mother, and Miriam 
also felt a little nervous regarding the dowager 
Lady MacKennon. 

“She’s old-fashioned, you know, darling,” he 
told her, “and a bit prejudiced; but you’ll soon 
fall into her ways.” 

“And, of course, she will never think anyone 
good enough for you,” smiled Miriam. 

“Yes, she will think you are too good,” an- 
swered vSir James, with a tender light in his gray 
eyes, as they rested on the sweet face of his young 
wife. 

This brief conversation took place during their 
journey to Scotland, and was like many of their 
conversations, very simple and kindly. They were 
excellent companions, and Sir James always looked 
on the bright side of everything. He was so ge- 
nial that it becaihe-infectious, and Miriam some- 
times found herself smiling quite brightly at his 
harmless jokes. 

His place, Kintore, was in the Western High- 
lands, a substantial gray old house standing by 
the blue waters of one of the most beautiful of the 
inland lochs. Sir James possessed a large estate 
here, but only a part of his income arose from the 
heathery hills and glens of his ancestral property. 


2o8 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


His mother had been the rich and only daughter 
of a Glasgow shipbuilder, and when his maternal 
grandfather died, some years after the death of his 
own father, it was found that the late Mr. Munro, 
the Glasgow shipbuilder, had bequeathed, perhaps 
in the pride of his heart, a large fortune to “ my 
grandson, Sir James MacKennon, Bart.” 

To his daughter. Lady MacKennon, he also left 
a considerable sum, but the bulk of his money 
went to Sir James. Lady MacKennon, however, 
was a rich woman before she received her father’s 
legacy. Her mother had been an heiress, and at 
her death she had left everything she had pos- 
sessed to her daughter. It was after this event 
that the father of vSir James had married her, and 
people said he had done so to prop up the fallen 
fortunes of his house. Miss Munro (Lady Mac- 
Kennon) was not handsome ; had never been hand- 
some, and was inclined to look upon fair skins and 
bright eyes only as snares of the evil one. She 
had been proud of, and was deeply attached to, 
her well-born husband; but she had carried many 
of her narrow prejudices and ideas with her to her 
new state. Therefore, we can understand that Sir 
James, knowing well the nature of this stiff, some- 
what self-righteous old dame, was anxious about 
what she would think of his young wife. 

It was dark, and had been dark several hours, 
when the young couple arrived at the mansion 
house of Kintore. A carriage had been waiting 
for them at the nearest station to Sir James’ place. 
A half-moon shone out to partly light them on 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 


209 


their way, and its glimmer fell on the waters of 
the loch as they drove by its side. 

“How beautiful it seems!” said Miriam, with 
enthusiasm. She had never been in the High- 
lands before. 

“Wait till you see it in daylight,” answered Sir 
James, with some pride. 

They were sitting hand-clasped, these two, as 
they approached their future home, and only 
thoughts of happiness were in Sir James’s heart. 
As for Miriam, she was excited by her surround- 
ings, and had not time to think. But as they 
drove up the avenue to the house she clasped Sir 
James’ hand a little tighter in her own. 

“ I feel quite nervous,” she said. 

He stooped down and kissed her. 

“What for, darling?” he whispered. “You are 
only going home.” 

Almost as he said this, they reached the hall 
door, which was standing open to receive them, 
and several servants also appeared. Sir James 
spoke kindly to some of these, and then turned 
and handed Miriam out of the carriage. Drawing 
her arm through his, he led her into the lighted 
hall ; and as he did this, a spare figure in black, 
with iron-gray hair plainly braided beneath her 
widow’s cap, appeared on the threshold of one of 
the rooms leading from the hall, and fixed her 
scrutinizing gaze upon the bride. 

For a moment Sir James did not see her, and 
Lady MacKennon did not advance. Then Sir 
James caught sight of his mother, and with an ex- 

14 


2 10 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


clamation of pleasure ran up and kissed her fur- 
rowed cheek. 

“Well, mother, here we are!” he said; “and 
this,” he added, drawing his young wife forward, 
“is Miriam.” 

“So I supposed,” said Lady MacKennon; and 
she held out a bony hand inclosed in a black mit- 
ten. “Well, welcome to your husband’s house. 
Lady MacKennon.” 

She did not offer to kiss her, and Miriam felt in 
a moment that her reception was not a warm one. 
But she made the best of it. She smiled, and put 
her slim hand with a graceful gesture into Lady 
MacKennon’s. 

“I’m afraid Miriam will be tired; it is such a 
long journey,” said Sir James. “I think, dear, 
you had better go upstairs at once, and get off 
your hat and cloak ; then mother, I am sure, will 
have something for us to eat. ” 

“Supper is prepared, James. I thought it was 
too late for dinner, as it is past ten,” said the dow- 
ager. “As soon as Lady MacKennon is ready, 
you can have it. ” 

She spoke a strong Scotch accent, and looked a 
woman of a very determined will. She was hard 
looking, in fact, and the stiffness of her manner 
and appearance made Miriam feel somewhat un- 
comfortable. 

“ I shall be ready in a few minutes,” she said. 
“Where is Ford? You must show me the way up- 
stairs, James.” 

“ Come along, then,” he said brightly. “ It’s so 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 


21 I 


jolly to see the old place again, mother, and to 
see you looking so vrell,” 

Lady MacKennon’s hard face relaxed. 

“I am pleased to see you at home,” she said, 
“ and — your wife. ” 

“Thanks, very much,” answered Sir James. 
“Which room is she to have, mother?” 

“ The blue room — the best,” replied his mother; 
and with a good-natured nod Sir James led his 
young wife away. 

In “the blue room — the best,” as Lady Mac- 
Kennon had described it, they found Ford and 
a gaunt, grizzled, hard-featured Scotch woman, 
whom Sir James warmly shook by the hand. 

“Well, Jean, and how are you?” he said kindly. 
“This is Jean Inglewood, my mother’s maid, Mir- 
iam. She has known me since I was a baby. ” 

“Ay, Master Jim,” said the Scotchwoman with 
a smile. “ But I beg yer pardon, my leedy, I 
should na say Master Jim now; but Sir James, 
but I have minded him since he was a bairn.” 

Miriam smiled, and held out her hand to the old 
serving-woman who had nursed her husband. 

“ Then I must shake hands with you,” she said 
pleasantly. 

Jean made her best curtsey in acknowledg- 
ment of this honor, and then Miriam was left to 
the care of Ford. She presently appeared down- 
stairs in a charming tea-gown of pale primrose 
silk, fantastically trimmed with white lace and 
ribbon; and her prim mother-in-law glanced at 
her costume with disapproval. Sir James, how- 


212 


THE T,AST SIGNAL. 


ever, was enchanted with it, and was delighted to 
see that Miriam was looking very handsome. 

“We bought that gown in Paris, mother. Isn’t 
it smart?” he said. 

“I fear Paris is a very sinful city,” answered 
Lady MacKennon, with a doleful shake of her 
head. Whether aimed at the tea-gown or city she 
did not explain. 

Sir James laughed good-naturedly, and they all 
went into the handsome old-fashioned dining-room, 
where a sumptuous supper was laid out. The 
heavy sideboard was laden with costly plate, and 
all around were evidences of wealth. The butler 
had grown gray in his lady’s service, and, too, re- 
membered “Master Jim,” and looked with great 
interest on his bride. During supper. Lady Mac- 
Kennon relaxed somewhat, and it was evident that 
her son was the very pride and darling of her 
heart. Her eyes rested on him, and softened as 
they looked. Sir James, too, was fond of his 
mother. He got up when supper was over and 
went to her chair, and kissed her, and whispered 
in her ear as he did so: 

“Isn’t she awfully pretty, mother?” Lady 
MacKennon made no reply. She took her son’s 
hand and patted it tenderly, as she might have 
done when he was a little boy. Then she sighed 
vsoftly, wishing, perhaps, that those days could 
come again, when she had been first in her son’s 
heart. 

But she made no complaint. When they parted 
for the night, as Miriam was about to shake hands 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 


213 


with her mother-in-law, Sir James called out, 
“ You should kiss her, mother.” 

Then Lady MacKennon did for a moment 
touch Miriam’s lovely face with her thin, blush- 
tinted lips. 

“I am not much given to kissing, James — but 
she is your wife,” she said; and then she turned 
and kissed her son. 

And when she went upstairs her old serving- 
woman was waiting to undress her, and, of course, 
was eager to discuss the bride. 

“Well, Jean, what do yon think of Sir James’s 
choice?” asked Lady MacKennon. 

“Weel, myleddy,” answered Jean, “she’s unco 
well-favored, anyhow. ” 

“ Beauty’s but skin deep, Jean.” 

“Ay, but the men-folks think a lot o’ it,” said 
Jean reflectively, 

“It’s a snare to them,” replied Lady Mac- 
Kennon, shaking her head; “a pit into which 
many fall. ” 

Neither Jean nor her mistress, however, could 
complain that they had wrought much evil by 
their good looks. They were both plain, hard- 
featured women, and Miriam’s beauty was no rec- 
ommendation in Lady MacKennon’s eyes. Still 
she did not deny it, and she was gratified the next 
morning by Miriam’s enthusiastic admiration of 
the wild, and beautiful scenery around Kintore. 

“ I shall never weary of looking at it,” said Mir- 
iam, “ J ames, you never told me it was like this. ” 

“It is too late to see it in perfection,” said Sir 


214 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


James, going to the window and laying his hand 
tenderly on Miriam’s shoulder. “ Wait till we are 
here next August and September; it’s splendid 
then, isn’t it, mother?” 

“ It’s like a fairy scene even now,” went on Mir- 
iam. “ How blue the loch is, and the dark firs, and 
that great mountain towering away into the sky. 
Have you always lived here. Lady MacKennon?” 

“ Since my marriage,” answered Lady MacKen- 
non. “ I came here as a bride, and will only 
leave it when I am carried away to my long home. ” 

“No dismal talk is to be allowed, mother,” said 
Sir James, in his bright kindly way. “I want 
Miriam to enjoy her first day in her new home.” 

And she really did enjoy it. The weather was 
wonderfully fine for the season, and the whole 
thing was so new to her. Sir J ames rowed her on 
the loch, and they wandered together through the 
steep passes, with their gray blocks of granite 
standing out from the lichen and the moss. Mir- 
iam returned to the house delighted with every- 
thing ; and thus also two more pleasant days were 
passed. There was good news, too, from Tyeford. 
Joan was improving, Mrs. Clyde wrote, and when, 
on the fourth day of her stay at Kintore, Miriam 
sat down in the inner drawing-room in the after- 
noon to write to her mother and Joan, she was 
able to write quite in a cheerful strain. 

The inner drawing-room was divided from the 
front drawing-room by heavy brocade silk cur- 
tains, which were always kept closed on account 
of the draught. They were both pleasant rooms. 


A FEVERED BRAIN. 


215 


and on this day large and cheerful fires were 
burning in each. Miriam had finished her letter 
to her mother, and was busy writing to Joan, des- 
cribing the scenery round Kintore, and the place, 
when the butler raised the brocade curtains that 
divided the two drawing-rooms, and, to Miriam’s 
intense surprise, announced, “General Conray. ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


TRUE TO JOAN. 

“ You!” exclaimed Miriam, springing to her feet 
with outstretched hand. Something in the expres- 
sion of the General’s face as he advanced into the 
room sent a sudden chill to her heart. 

“Joan ” she faltered. 

“She is no worse,” answered General Conray 
slowly, as if he understood her unspoken question. 
“ I have come to Scotland on purpose to see you, 
Miriam,” he added, with his stern eyes fixed upon 
her, “to learn the truth at last from your own 
lips.” 

As he said this Miriam’s face suddenly flushed 
and then grew pale, and her eyes fell before his. 

“ What do you mean?” she asked, in an unsteady 
voice. 

“ I mean, are the words that Joan has spoken in 
her sleep and in her delirium true or false? Was 
Robert Conray your lover or hers?” 

As he asked this question in a loud, harsh voice, 
the Dowager Lady MacKennon entered the front 
drawing-room, and paused on the threshold as she 
did so. She had been told that General Conray 
had arrived. She knew him to be the brother-in- 
law of Miriam, and she had gone into the draw- 
216 


TRUE TO JOAN. 


217 


ing-room for the purpose of receiving him, when 
his startling words fell on her astonished ears. 
She was quick of hearing, and she distinctly heard 
his question. If she had acted rightly she would, 
of course, have left the room. But she did not do 
this. She stayed and listened to a conversation 
she knew very well that she was not intended to 
hear. She had a sort of grim satisfaction in doing 
this. . She never trusted pretty women ; her 
daughter-in-law was pretty, and she believed she 
was about to hear something to her disadvantage. 
So she remained in the interests of her son. 

Miriam did not for a moment answer General 
Conray. She hesitated, and then she looked up in 
his face. 

“ Has poor Joan been delirious then? As ill as 
that, and I was never told!” 

“ You are playing with me, and I did not come 
here to listen to subterfuges. Yes, Joan has been 
very ill ; but before her illness she spoke words in 
her sleep which filled my very soul with horror. 
Miriam, you swore at the inquest that you were 
with Robert Conray the night of his death?” 

“Yes,” said Miriam, trying to speak steadily, 
though she knew her voice faltered. 

“Was this true then, or were Joan’s ravings 
true? vShe cried out in her sleep about Robert 
Conray — that she had loved him — that he was 
hers, not yours? Will you speak the truth, for 
this is life or death to me. If she deceived me, I 
must know!” 

“She did not deceive you,” answered Miriam 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


218 

“ Robert Coiiray was my lover; I was with him in 
the grounds the night of his — death.” 

“Of his murder!” innterupted General Conray 
sternly. “ In her fever Joan spoke at least some 
words which I believe to be true ; she said Hugh 
Ferrars, the man I always suspected, killed him — 
the young man, who was your lover, and whom I 
disapproved of — and that you hid him : that you 
know where he is.” 

Miriam visibly started. 

“ Why should you believe her ravings — the rav- 
ings of fever?” she said in a faltering voice. 

“ I do believe them, at all events. I believe 
there is something in all this; that something 
has preyed on Joan’s mind, and that you are keep- 
ing something back. This Ferrars was your lover. 
Did he murder Robert Conray in some jealous 
rage?” 

“ I know nothing,” answered Miriam. 

“ I see by your face, I hear by your voice, you 
do! Joan said you knew where Ferrars was hid- 
ing, and I asked where ; she said somewhere by the 
sea. Did she mean Newbrough-on-the-Sea? It 
is my duty to hunt this man down — to discover 
Robert Conray ’s murderer if I can; and you must 
help me. ” 

“ I can do nothing; I know nothing.” 

“Joan must have had something to go upon, and 
I believe she had. If this Ferrars murdered Rob- 
ert, I believe you knew it, and you screened him 
at the time and would screen him now!” 

“ I repeat I know nothing,” said Miriam; “noth- 


TRUE TO JOAN. 


219 


ing- but what I said at the inquest. I parted with 
Robert Conray alive and well that night. The 
next time I saw him he was dead.” 

What is there in truth that appeals to some sub- 
tle instinct of our souls, guiding us almost with 
unerring touch? Miriam spoke these words posi- 
tively. She was fighting for her sister, lying for 
her sister; and General Conray did not believe 
her. He had believed her before, because no 
doubt had then entered his mind. Now that it 
was there, her words did not convince him. He 
stood looking at her hardly and severely, and he 
believed her to be guilty of what he accused her. 

^ You will say nothing, then?” he said at length. 

“ Nothing but what I have said before. I was 
engaged to Robert Conray, and Joan knew it, 
though you did not. But what good does it do to 
talk of this now? Naturally I do not wish Sir 
James to hear of this tragic story,” 

“ I do not wish to tell him. Let him believe 
in you if he can. But it was well known that Fer- 
rars was your lover — that you at one time at least 
encouraged him ; and he mysteriously disappeared 
the very day of Robert Conray’s death. Will you 
answer me truthfully, did you never hear of or see 
from him that day?” 

“Never,” answered Miriam, in a low tone, and 
with downcast eyes. 

“I cannot — I do not — believe it! Joan could 
not have invented such a story, even in her deli- 
rium, without some foundation. Your father re- 
turns to Newbrough-on-the-Sea to-day. I shall go 


220 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


to him there before I return to Tyeford, and in- 
stitute inquiries about Ferrars. You have been at 
home ever since you left us, nearly two years ago ; 
if, as Joan said, you had seen Ferrars, you must 
have seen him there.” 

“Do as you please,” said Miriam, with a sink- 
ing heart, and a blanched face. “And,” she 
added, “is my mother staying on with Joan?” 

“For the present, yes. Miriam, will you say 
again — will you swear — that poor Joan never de- 
ceived me?” 

“ I will swear. ” 

He looked at her long and earnestly. In spite 
of himself, against his inner sense, these words 
gave him some consolation. They might be true, 
thought the gray-haired soldier; so with bowed 
head he turned to go away. 

“Good-by,” he said, holding out his cold hand. 

“Won’t you stay to see my husband, to see 
Lady MacKennon?” said Miriam. “James is out 
on the hills somewhere, but he will be disap- 
pointed if you go away without seeing him.” 

“ I am in no mood to exchange civilities with 
any one, and I must go.” 

“ They will think it strange ” 

“You can tell them I came to see you about 
your sister’s illness. Good-by.” 

At this moment the dowager Lady MacKennon, 
who had remained in the front drawing-room dur- 
ing the whole of the conversation between General 
Conray and her daughter-in-law, thought fit to re- 
tire to her own apartments upstairs. When the 


TRUE TO JOAN. 


221 


General passed through it on his way out the front 
drawing-room was empty. 

But imagine the anxiety and misery he had 
left behind ! As the General disappeared Miriam 
clasped her hands together as if in despair. For 
a moment or two she felt utterly overwhelmed. 
Then she roused herself. There was no time to 
be lost. Hugh Ferrars must be warned, must 
leave Newbrough-on-the-Sea at once. If General 
Conray went there he was sure to recognize him — 
sure to hear that she was supposed to have saved 
his life upon the sands. The whole circumstances 
would leave no doubt in his mind. She sat down, 
therefore, to write to Ferrars — to write to him 
with a trembling hand and a beating heart. 


“ Fly at once, when you receive this. My unhappy 
sister has had fever, and in her delirium she betrayed 
much of the truth to General Conray. He came here 
to-day to question me, but I denied everything. He is 
now going to Newbrough-on-the-Sea, as poor J. gave 
him some idea you were there. Leave Newbrough, 
therefore, when you receive this without a moment's 
delay. Ask for a few days’ leave — say after your ill- 
ness — this will be safest. I inclose twenty pounds for 
you to leave with ; but let me know where I can send 
you the rest of the money — the money you gave me 
back, and which I have kept for you. Answer this 
letter, addressed to my maid Ford ; but I entreat you 
do not neglect my warning, for if you do, even for a 
day, it will be too late. 

“Always your friend. 


“ M.” 


222 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Miriam wrote this hurried scrawl in haste and 
secrecy, and then carried it up to her own room, 
where she addressed the envelope to Private Dare, 
at Newbrough-on-the-Sea, and placed four bank- 
notes within it. She felt a subtle pang of con- 
science as she did so. She remembered at this 
moment that she was James MacKennon’s wife, 
but she must save Ferrars, and this was the only 
way to save him. Then she put on her hat and 
cloak and went out to post the letter. The near- 
est post-office to Kintore was at a village quite 
two miles distant. But Miriam had noticed 
where it was, and so speedily started on her way, 
walking as quickly as possible, and with a strong 
sensation of nervousness and fear in her heart. 

She reached the little village where the post- 
office was situated without meeting any one, and a 
moment or two later had slipped her letter into 
the box. She heard it fall with a feeling of re- 
lief, but just as she was turning away, with a 
guilty start she recognized her husband’s tall form, 
followed by two deer-hounds, approaching her 
from the opposite end of the village. 

Sir James did not see her at once, but when he 
did his surprise was very great. 

“Why, Miriam, my dear!” he cried, when still 
a little distance from her; “however have you 
cast up here?” 

“I — I came to post a letter,” faltered Miriam, 
doing her best not to appear embarrassed; “and 
for the walk.” 

“ To post a letter?” repeated Sir James, smiling. 


TRUE TO JOAN. 


223 


and drawing her hand through his arm. “Why 
did you not put it into the post-bag?” 

“ I had a headache, and I thought the walk 
would do me good,” anwered Miriam. 

“ A headache? My dear little girl, why did you 
not tell me?” said Sir James, tenderly looking 
down at her face. “ I thought you wanted to stay 
at home to write letters, or I should not have 
gone out. ” 

“ So I did, James. But I have been very much 
upset. After you went out. General Conray came ; 
he — he was passing through Scotland on some 
military duty, I think, and he came to tell me 
about Joan; and — she has been much worse than 
I thought: than mother told me. She — has been 
delirious, and very ill. ” 

“I’m so awfully sorry, Miriam! so awfully 
sorry, dear!” and Sir James took one of her little 
trembling hands in his. “ Why, you are shaking 
all over, Miriam ! My dearie, you must not fret 
about Joan; the worst is over now, no doubt, or 
the General would not have left her. ” 

“ She is still very ill, I am afraid,” said Miriam, 
her eyes filling with tears. It was a sort of relief 
to her overcharged heart to be able to shed them, 
while Sir James said and did everything he could 
to comfort her. 

“And the General? He is still at Kintore, of 
course?” presently inquired Sir James. 

“No,” answered Miriam. ‘ He would not stay. 
I wished him to stay to see you ; but he had not 
time, he said, and he went.” 


224 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I am SO sorry I did not see him. So my poor 
little girl has had nothing but trouble since I’ve 
been away from her? And I suppose the letter 
you have just posted was to your mother about 
poor Joan?” 

“Yes,” faltered Miriam, with drooping head. 

“ She’ll not get it any earlier, you know, dear, 
than if you had put it in the post-bag. How- 
ever, I am the gainer, when I’ve got my dear lit- 
tle wife to walk home with me.” 

“You are very kind, James,” said Miriam in a 
low tone. 

He drew her arm closer to him. 

“My darling!” he half whispered. “And did 
the mother see General Conray?” he asked a mo- 
ment later. 

“No; I have not seen Lady MacKennon since 
lunch. The General only stayed a short time.” 

“Well, let us talk of something else; but if you 
are very anxious about Joan I can telegraph, you 
know, Miriam.” 

“ He said she was no worse,” answered Miriam, 
still tearfully ; “but it upset me so to know she 
had been so very ill. I am sorry now, James, we 
did not go to her before we came here.” 

“ But we can go to-morrow, you know, if you 
like. Just do whatever you wish, Miriam. I am 
ready to go with you.” 

Again Miriam felt keen self-reproach in her 
heart as she listened to these kindly words. She 
thought of the letter she had just sent away, and 
her miserable anxiety seemed to deepen as she did 


TRUE TO JOAN. 


225 


SO. If Hugh Ferrars were arrested, this dark 
story of the past, and of which Sir James had never 
heard, would be brought forward again. How 
would he bear it? Unconsciously Miriam clasped 
her husband’s arm closer, as she thought and won- 
dered if his love would quite turn away from her 
if he knew all. 

As together, arm-in-arm, they reached the house 
of Kintore, the cold eyes of the dowager were 
watching them from one of the upper windows, 
her mind full of dislike and anger at the girl whom 
she believed now had so basely deceived her son. 
Every word which had passed between General 
Conray and Miriam had engraved itself as it were 
on Lady MacKennon’s heart. 

“A nice wife to bring home, truly!” she said to 
herself bitterly, as she saw the young pair ap- 
proaching the house, and noticed the look of love 
and tenderness on Sir James’s face; “a girl with 
a disgraceful past; a girl whose lover was mur- 
dered by another lover; and then to marry my 
James! But he shall know; it is my duty to let 
him know ; and we shall see what he will say to 
her then.” 

15 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE'DOWAGER’s duty. 

Before Miriam went down dressed for dinner 
Sir James rapped at her room door, and brought 
her in a bunch of freshly cut cream-colored roses. 

“I’ve been to the conservatory to get you a 
posie, dear,” he said, in his kindly way. “We’ve 
got a visitor to-day,” he added with a laugh ; “ the 
funniest old chap, who dines here every Thursday, 
and has dined here every Thursday as long as I 
can remember. ” 

“ Who is it?” answered Miriam, turning round 
and looking at him with a smile. 

“The Rev. David Young, the minister of the 
parish,” answered Sir James. “He’ll make you 
laugh, my dear, and I want to see you laugh.” 

“Very well,” said Miriam, still smiling; “I 
am ready now, James, and we can go down to- 
gether.” 

“ Come along then, and I shall introduce you to 
the Rev. David,” said Sir James, drawing her 
hand through his arm, looking and feeling very 
proud of his handsome young wife; and Ford, 
who had been dressing her lad)% looked after them 
both with great admiration. 

“Well, he is fond of her,” she thought to her- 
226 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 


227 


self. “ Miss Miriam’s done a very good thing for 
herself after all, but I hope she’ll take care.” 

Ford’s sense of propriety, indeed, had received 
a slight shock during the time when she had been 
dressing Miriam, for nervously and uneasily Mir- 
iam had asked her to receive a letter again for her. 

“ A letter will come here for me addressed to 
you, I expect, during the next two days,” she had 
said, with downcast eyes and trembling lips. 
“ I — I don’t want them to know here that I receive 
it; will you bring it to me quietly?” 

“Of course, my lad}^” replied Ford; but she 
felt her lady was acting unwisely, and she thought 
that she was very foolish to run such a risk. 

“No man is worth it,” reflected the maid; “ and 
if it’s that private fellow, well, it is a pity.” 

Meanwhile Miriam was going down the broad 
oak staircase, leaning on her husband’s arm. In 
the drawing-room they found a lanky parson in 
rusty black, who rose awkwardly as they entered. 

“This is my wife, Mr. Young,” said Sir James, 
upon which the lanky parson made a dismal bow. 

' He was an extraordinary looking creature, with 
a parchment-colored skin, lantern jaws, and sunken 
dark eyes. Yet absolutely he had at one time as- 
pired to become the second husband of the Dow- 
ager Lady MacKennon. How he ever had the 
courage to do this was a marvel, but it was never- 
theless a fact. He had certainly dined with her 
each week for many years before he made any ad- 
vances at all. Then he began to come twice a 
week; but here Lady MacKennon snubbed him. 


228 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I’m expecting you on the Thursdays, not the 
Tuesdays, Mr. Young,” she said to him when he 
ventured to appear too soon, and he had the sense 
to take the hint. But one Thursday, after a sec- 
ond glass of grog, his tongue was loosened. 

“ Life’s a lang lonely journey for single folks 
like you and me, don’t ye think. Lady MacKen- 
non?” said the minister, rolling his sunken eyes 
at his hostess. 

“Ay, but my eyes are fixed on the Rest beyond,” 
replied Lady MacKennon. 

“ Nae doubt, nae doubt; but 5^e’re not there yet. 
Lady MacKennon, and a fellow traveller to guide 
yer steps wad nae doubt be a help and comfort. ” 

“My steps do not falter,” replied the dowager, 
with a dignified satisfaction in her own righteous- 
ness. 

“ Ay, but we’re poor weak creatures at best, and 
if ye were to stumble, I wad like to be nigh to 
pick ye up.” 

“ I have no fear, Mr. Young.” 

“Ye hae been a lang time a widow. Lady 
MacKennon, and it’s a lonesome state,” said the 
minister insinuatingly. 

“And I’ll be one when they carry me to my 
long home. Don’t talk any more, Mr. Young; 
old folks like you and me should know better. I 
don’t mean to change my state, so let that end it.” 

The minister was therefore silenced, but this 
conversation did not prevent him appearing on 
the following Thursday at dinner time, and on 
every Thursday afterward with unvarying regu- 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 229 

larity. The dowager dined at seven, and at seven 
the Rev. David arrived, and he would tell her in 
his slow way all the little bits of gossip of the 
neighboring hamlets. 

After Sir James had introduced Miriam he fixed 
his lack-lustre eyes on her fair face, wondering 
dimly at its beauty. But his thoughts were in- 
terrupted by the entrance of the dowager, who 
came into the room looking very stern and severe, 
and during the dinner that followed she never 
once addressed a word to her son’s young wife. 

Miriam did not notice this, but Sir James did, 
and it made him uncomfortable. He had hoped 
that his mother would in her reserved way be- 
come attached to her new daughter-ij^-law, but he 
was afraid it did not look very like it at present. 
It was, in fact, an extremely dull evening, and 
Sir James was glad when it was over. Just as he 
was leaving the room for the night, after the min- 
ister had taken his departure, and Miriam had 
gone upstairs, his mother arose and laid a cold 
trembling hand upon his arm. 

“James, I have something to tell you, ’’she said, 
not flinching in her hard purpose, yet sorry, per- 
haps, to inflict pain on her son, though she be- 
lieved it to be her duty to do so. 

“ Well, what is it, mother?” he answered pleas- 
antly. “Nothing serious, I hope?” 

“ It’s a sad and terrible thing, James. I have 
doubted her from the first; but the wife you have 
brought into this house is unworthy of her place 
here.” 


230 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Mother! What do you mean?” exclaimed Sir 
James, with a sudden change of countenance and 
manner. 

“ It’s a sore and bitter thing to tell you, but my 
duty lies plain before me, and I must not shirk 
it. James, I was in the front drawing-room to- 
day when General Conray came to see the woman 
you have brought here, and I overheard him speak 
such words to her that they will bring my gray 
hair with sorrow to the grave.” 

“Mother, are you mad?” cried Sir Janies, who 
had now grown pale to the very lips. “ General 
Conray?” 

“ No, my son, I am not mad. I heard this Gen- 
eral Conray tell the woman you call your wife all 
about her past life, and the terrible sin and shame 
of it. I heard her say she had been out with some 
lover the night he was inurdered, and General Con- 
ray said another lover of hers had done the ac- 
cursed deed! He said ” 

“Mother, I won’t believe a word of it!” now 
cried Sir James, interrupting her. “ I won’t be- 
lieve a word against Miriam ; I believe she is good 
and pure as an angel; you’re dreaming; you’re 
fancying things ; you must not insult my wife ; I 
won’t stand it, I won’t hear it; so good-night, and 
I hope you will have come to your senses by the 
morning.” 

Lady MacKennon’s only reply was a groan, 
but Sir James did not wait to hear any more. He 
hastily left the drawing-room and went to the 
smoking-room, and began to smoke, telling him- 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 


23 


self that his mother had undoubtedly taken leave 
of her senses. He told himself this again and 
again, yet her words left a sting. As a rule, he 
knew she was a rigidly truthful woman, but preju- 
diced and narrow-minded. She had taken a dis- 
like to poor Miriam, and wanted to turn him 
against her, he began to think. She might have 
heard General Conray talking of things that she 
did not understand, and that could have no connec- 
tion with Miriam whatever. “ Out with a lover 
the night he was murdered! How absurd!” 
laughed Sir James, yet the laugh had an uncertain 
and dreary ring in it. He had known nothing of 
her past life, he presently remembered ; nothing 
till he met her at a ball at Halstone, and had fallen 
in love with her and wooed her. Then he re- 
membered, also, that she had been very cold and 
coy about fixing their wedding : that she had pnt 
it off. 

“Good heavens!” cried Sir James, starting to 
his feet, “ all sorts of horrible things are coming 
into m}^ mind — am I growing as mad as mother? 
I am ashamed of myself — ashamed of myself for 
a moment to let such thoughts creep into my 
brain. They are contemptible about Miriam, 
about my pure sweet love. I will think of them 
no more.” 

And he tried not. He went upstairs pres- 
ently, and found Miriam asleep. He stood look- 
ing at her, and these horrid doubts again stole 
into his mind. It is wonderful the harm that evil 
words can do. Their poison lingers against our 


232 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


will, turning bitter too often the sweetness of our 
lives. Sir James had had perfect trust and confi- 
dence in Miriam ; it had never dawned upon his 
mind to have any other feelings toward her until 
his mother had done what she called her duty ! 

“ She was agitated about General Conray’s visit 
when I met her to-day, certainly,” he now began 
thinking, looking at his sleeping wife, “ and why 
did she go out to post a letter at Strathloe, instead 
of putting it in the letter-bag here? But what 
folly ! She was agitated, of course, about her sis- 
ter’s illness, and thought — poor darling — a letter 
would reach her mother more quickly if she posted 
it herself at the village. I won’t think about it 
any more ; I think we had better go from here till 
all this folly blows over. ” 

And he actually proposed to Miriam on the fol- 
lowing morning that they should leave Kintore. 

“ Would you like to go to see your sister, dear?” 
he said. 

“ I think we had better wait a day or two, until I 
hear from mother,” answered Miriam. 

“ Well, just as you like. By-the-bye, Miriam, did 
you ever stay with Mrs. Conray at their house? 
What is it called? Oh, yes — Tyeford.” 

“Yes,” answered Miriam, and Sir James could 
not but notice that she grew a little pale, and that 
her lips quivered as she made this brief answer. 

“ Not since I have known you?” he said. 

“No, before — two years ago. How fine it is 
to-day, James! I wonder if it is too cold to row 
on the loch?” 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 


233 


So she changed the conversation, and the two 
went out to row and then to drive; and Sir James 
would have forgotten all his mother had said if it 
had not been for her stern, unbending manner to 
Miriam. She scarcely spoke to her, and Miriam 
began to perceive there was something very much 
amiss with her mother-in-law. She asked her 
husband, and he answered with affected careless- 
ness: 

“ She takes odd ideas into her head sometimes. 
Oh, she’ll be all right presently.” 

As for Lady MacKennon, she made no further 
attempt to renew the conversation with her son 
about his wife. She was satisfied that she had 
done right to warn him, and she was satisfied, also, 
that some day things would become plainer in his 
eyes. A little accident which occurred the sec^ 
ond day after General Conray’s visit to Kintore 
made her more certain of this still. 

It was at breakfast time, and when the locked 
letter-bag was brought in by the butler. Lady 
MacKennon’s keen eyes happened to be fixed on 
Miriam’s face. She saw at once the strange look 
of anxiety there as Sir James proceeded leisurely 
to unlock and open the bag. 

“ Here is one for you, dear,” he said, handing a 
letter to Miriam, who held it unopened for a mo- 
ment in her hand with her gaze still fixed on the 
letter-bag. Then she opened her letter, but still 
her eyes were on the different letters that Sir 
James was drawing carelessly out. 

“It is from mother,” she said a moment later; 


234 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“Joan is a little better ” and then she sud- 

denly stopped, and her breath came short. 

For Sir James was looking attentively and smil- 
ingly at the direction of a letter he held in his 
hand. All the letters for the household at Kin- 
tore — and they were not numerous — came in the 
family letter-bag, and Sir James used to lay those 
aside that were not for himself, his mother, or 
his wife, and they were carried downstairs by the 
butler. 

“ This is for that swell young woman of yours, 
Miriam,” he said, still smiling. “ Miss Ford, care 
of Lady MacKennon, and her correspondent writes 
very well ; it’s like a gentleman’s handwriting.” 

Then the dowager again fixed her eyes on Mir- 
iam’s face, and saw it had absolutely grown white 
and clammy, and the expression of her eyes was 
full of fear. 

“Give it to me, James,” said Miriam huskily; 
“ and I will give it to Ford.” 

The dowager watched her as she took the letter 
in her trembling hand, as she put it beneath her 
own letter, as she tried to speak indifferently, and 
could not. She noticed, too, that she ate no break- 
fast, and that her hand shook as she raised her tea- 
cup to her pale lips. 

“She is hiding something,” thought Lady Mac- 
Kennon sternly. “ The letter to her maid prob- 
ably contains a letter to herself; it is shameful.” 

“You are not eating anything, dear,” said Sir 
James kindly, now also' looking at his young 
wife. 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 


235 

“ Your letters seem to have upset you, ” remarked 
the dowager grimly. 

Then Miriam tried to pull herself together. 

“ No, my sister is a little better,” she said ; “ but 
it naturally makes one feel nervous getting letters 
when any one is very ill. ” 

“ Of course it does,” said Sir James. “ I am so 
glad, dear, that Mrs. Conray is better.” 

Miriam tried to smile gratefully at her husband, 
but it was a very painful effort. Then Sir James 
began to read little pieces of news from the papers, 
and at last the breakfast was over, and Miriam was 
free to go upstairs with her two letters. She al- 
most ran up the staircase, and hurried to her 
room and found two housemaids there arranging it. 

“You can go; you can return afterward,” she 
said, and a few moments later she was alone. 
Then she tore open the letter addressed to Ford, 
and read it with bated breath and parted lips. 

“I scarcely know how to thank you. Your warn- 
ing has come in time. I have obtained a week’s fur- 
lough, and leave Newbrough-on-the-Sea, as I am post- 
ing this, never to return. I am going away — out of 
England ; but before I go I wish to see you once more. 
Do not refuse my last request, dear Miriam, for the 
sake of the old love which, in my heart at least, will 
never grow cold. I shall go, therefore, to Scotland — 
to the neighborhood of Kintore, and will write to you 
when I arrive there, addressing my letter as usual to 
your maid Ford. Arrange to meet me wherever and 
at any hour you please, and I shall be there. But do 
not refuse to see me for the last time. H. F.’ 


236 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


This letter was at once a relief and a terror to 
Miriam. At all events, he was going away: go- 
ing to leave England, and Joan’s secret would be 
safe. But how could she meet him? She was 
afraid, and yet could she refuse? Poor Hugh, 
whose life had been wrecked, all through his fond, 
passionate love for her. Yes, she would see him, 
she decided — see him to bid him farewell; to bid 
him God-speed to the land where he must begin 
his new life; and she would always afterward try 
to do her duty and make her husband happy. She 
did not think of meeting Hugh Ferrars now with 
the same thoughts and feelings as she had done at 
Newbrough-on-the-Sea. She was a wife now, 
bound to James MacKennon, and she meant to 
keep true to these bonds, but still she wished to 
bid her old friend good-by. The difficulty was, 
how to do it without endangering his safety. But 
he had obtained a week’s furlough, and no one 
would know where he was. So she must wait, 
Miriam told herself: wait until she heard from 
him, and then for a few moments — only a few mo- 
ments — they would meet. 

She hid away his letter, and placed two hundred 
pounds ready in an envelope to give him. ' Hav- 
ing made these preparations, she went down to the 
breakfast-room to her husband. She thought he 
looked a little strange when she entered the room, 
and there was a flush on his brown cheeks which 
was not usually there. The truth was, the dow- 
ager had once more been doing her best to make 
him miserable, for Miriam had scarcely left the 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 


237 


room with the two letters when Lady MacKennon 
had remarked in a sepulchral voice : 

“James, did you remark anything extraordinary 
in the manner with which your wife received that 
letter addressed to her maid?” 

“No, I did not,” answered Sir James, testily 
enough. 

“ I did, then. She was agitated ; she was un- 
easy. It is your duty as her husband to make her 
show you the contents of that letter.” 

“Show me the contents of her maid’s letter !” 
said Sir James scornfully. “ Really, mother, your 
ideas are most extraordinary.” 

“You will see,” replied Lady MacKennon 
grimly; and naturally Sir James felt exceedingly 
annoyed. 

He tried not to show this to Miriam. They had 
planned to pay a visit to the wife of one of the 
neighboring lairds in the afternoon, and now he 
asked her to go out with him to inspect the ken- 
nels and the horses. Miriam was fond of animals, 
and she therefore went at once to put on her hat 
to go with him. Sir James never hinted to her 
how his mother had disturbed him. He felt, 
however, so angry with the dowager that he deter- 
mined to stay no longer at Kintore. 

“ I think we have had about enough of this, lit- 
tle one,” he said in the afternoon as they drove by 
loch and brae, and mists crept round them. “ The 
truth is, November is not the season for the High- 
lands, and I think we would be jollier at Halstone 
with the regiment.” 


238 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“When do you think of going then, James?” an- 
swered Miriam. 

“ Well, we must give the old lady some notice, 
or it would be a dire offence. Suppose we say the 
beginning of next week?” 

“Very well; I shall be quite ready,” smiled 
Miriam. 

They then talked over their plans, and spoke of 
the house they meant to take at Halstone as long 
as Sir James’ regiment was quartered there, and 
Sir James’ spirits rose at the idea of a change. 
His mother had depressed and worried him and he 
was glad to go away from her. He was very cheer- 
ful at dinner, in spite of the sour looks which 
Lady MacKennon continually directed at Miriam. 
Miriam sang and played to him during the even- 
ing, and Sir James felt quite happy as he hung 
over the piano and turned the pages of her music. 

Lady MacKennon sat reading in her easy-chair. 
Presently Sir James went up to her and told her 
they intended to leave Kintore on the following 
week. The dowager’s thin blue lips quivered as 
she received this communication, but for a mo- 
ment or two she made no comment. 

“ I suppose it’s not gay enough for you here?” 
she said bitterly. 

“Oh, it’s not that, mother; but I have to go on 
duty. ” 

“ I thought you had two months’ leave, James,” 
replied Lady MacKennon. 

“At all events, we are going next week,” said 
Sir James, who was not unwilling to show his 


THE dowager’s DUTY. 


239 


mother how deeply she had annoyed him about 
his wife. Lady MacKennon made no further re- 
mark. 

The next morning at breakfast, when Sir James 
was as usual opening the letter-bag and drawing 
out the letters, he thoughtlessly gave a little ex- 
clamation' of surprise, as he lifted one in his hand 
and looked at the address. He had at the moment 
forgotten what his mother had said the morning 
before, or he probably would have made no re- 
mark. 

Why, Miriam, here’s another letter,” he said, 
“ for that maid of yours, in the same handwriting 
as the one she got yesterday ; and — yes, actually — 
it has been posted at Strathloe. Her young man 
must have followed her here!” 

As he said this he looked at his wife, and he 
saw that Miriam had suddenly grown very pale. 
In an instant his mother’s insinuations recurred 
to him. He glanced quickly and uneasily at the 
dowager. She looked at him in return, and then 
at Miriam’s agitated face. There was a sort of 
grim triumph in her expression, and her looks 
said very plainly : “ / told you so, ” 


CHAPTER XXL 


PLAYING WITH FIRE. 

Sir James, however, ignored his mother’s 
glance. He rose quietly, and with a certain dig- 
nity of manner, a moment later, went to where 
his wife was sitting at the breakfast-table, carry- 
ing the letter addressed to Ford with him. 

“Here is your maid’s letter, Miriam,” he said, 
and he laid it on the table beside her. 

“Thank you,” she answered; “ I shall give it to 
her.” She put out a trembling hand, and turned 
the letter with the direction downward. 

A great restraint fell on the little party after 
this. An uneasiness he could not subdue was in 
Sir James’ heart; fear and anxiety in Miriam’s; 
bitter satisfaction in Lady MacKennon’s. But 
strained moments pass like pleasant ones, and 
presently Sir James, having finished his breakfast 
without his usual appetite, rose and went to the 
window, and stood gazing vaguely out on the blue- 
green waters of the loch. His attitude, somehow, 
was unlike himself, and Miriam glanced at him 
uneasily. Then she rose and went to his side, and 
put her hand timidly on his arm, after first put- 
ting the letter addressed to Ford in the pocket of 
her dress, an action which the dowager’s keen 
eyes duly noted. 


240 


PLAYING WITH FIRE. 


241 


“What are you going to do, James?” said Mir- 
iam. He turned round and looked at her. 

“Anything you like, dear,” he answered. 

“It’s not very fine, is it?” continued Miriam, 
now in her turn looking vaguely at the loch. 

“ No, it’s not; look at the mist stealing down 
from the hills; but it may clear up later, ” said Sir 
James. 

“ Perhaps after luncheon. If you want me to go 
out I shall be upstairs. Good-by for the present,” 
said Miriam, with a somewhat forced smile. She 
was turning to leave her husband’s side when he 
put his arm through hers. 

“ I will go with you as far as the hall,” he said ; 
“then I’ll go and look at the horses, I think.” 

He was determined, in fact, not to be left with 
his mother. Lady MacKennon quite understood 
this, and a sour and bitter smile distorted her gray- 
tinted face as the young pair disappeared together 
from the room. 

“She is playing with fire, ” she thought, “and 
some day James will know it; ‘for they who have 
sown the wind shall reap the whirlwind.’ ” 

Meanwhile, Miriam and Sir James were stand- 
ing for a moment together at the foot of the broad 
staircase. 

“Will you come out for a little while if I come 
for you in half an hour?” he said. 

“Yes, I shall be very pleased,” answered Mir- 
iam ; “ I shall be ready in half an hour. ” 

He stooped down and kissed her, with a strange 
feeling of protecting love for her in his heart. 

16 


242 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Poor little woman!” he said, and then turned 
away. He lit a cigar, and went out among the 
horses and dogs; but he did not feel very happy. 
He wanted to be away from Kintore, and from his 
mother. He hated the memory of that look in 
Lady MacKennon’s eyes when he had spoken of 
Ford’s letter, and he could not disguise from him- 
self that Miriam had seemed unmistakably agi- 
tated. 

“ Something is worrying her; what can it be?” 
he asked himself. “ I won’t believe a word against 
her; but I think she is in some trouble. ” If she 
would only trust me — I would do anything for 
her. I am sure she is in some trouble. 

At this moment Miriam was indeed in great 
trouble. She had opened the letter addressed to 
Ford, and saw it was dated, as she had feared, 
from the little Inn at the village of Strathloe. 

“Dear Miriam: — I have just arrived here, arrived 
to bid you a last good-by. Where shall we meet? 
If you are afraid to see me in daylight, I will come at 
night. Arrange the time and some signal when you 
can see me. Let me know to-day, for to wait is very 
terrible. 

“H. F.” 

Miriam wrung her hands over these few lines. 
She did not know when she might be free, and 
time was so precious to him — every moment was 
precious. She must try to see him this afternoon ; 
but where? Near the village by Strathloe she 
remembered there was a lonely glen Sir James 


PLAYING WITH FIRE. 


243 


had pointed out to her. Could she go there? It 
was two miles off, and she must walk; but that 
was nothing. But how was she to get quit of Sir 
James? 

“And he is so good!” she thought repen tingly. 
“ But it’s the last time — the last time, poor Hugh !” 

She finally made up her mind that she would 
send Ford with a note to the Inn at Strathloe, and 
tell Ferrars that she would try to see him during 
the afternoon. She could not promise, but she 
would try if §he could manage to go out alone. If 
he walked along the loch side until he came with- 
in sight of the house at Kintore, at half-past three 
o’clock, she would wave a white handkerchief 
from a window in the second story of the house 
that faced the loch. This was to be the last signal 
that should ever pass between them, she told her- 
self, as she penned a few hurried lines to Hugh 
Ferrars. But she must save him ; she must give 
him the money to take him to another land, and 
bid him farewell forever. 

At all events she wrote this, and then rang for 
Ford. The maid soon appeared, looking pinker 
and prettier than ever. A handsome young gillie 
had succumbed to her attractions, and Ford had 
begun to find the Highlands endurable. She 
came into the room tripping and smiling; but 
something in Miriam’s face — its pallor — its ear- 
nestness, made her expression change. 

“ Ford, I want you to go an errand for me — to 
take a letter,” said Miriam. 

“Yes, my lady,” replied Ford inquiringly. 


244 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ Do you know the village of Strathloe — a village 
about two miles distant from here?” 

“No, my lady; but I can find out anything. 
There’s a young man called Donald about the 
place, and he will show me where it is.” 

“ Yes. Ford, an old friend of mine is in great 
trouble, and I want to see him to say good-by, 
and — to take him some money before he sails for 
one of the Colonies. Do you understand? I do 
not want any one here to know, and — and I v/ant 
you to take him this letter; and if I can manage it 
I want to meet him this' afternoon. ” 

“Yes, my lady,” said Ford, slowly and reflect- 
fully. It was a pity, she was thinking; and yet, 
of course, if Lady MacKennon chose to run such 
risks, in all probability it would do Ford no harm, 
but good. Her lady would be absolutely in her 
power, and Ford knew that power pays. “Then 
have I to take the letter to the inn at Strathloe?” 
she added, “ and have I to give it to — the gentle- 
man?” 

Miriam ’s pale face grew suddenly crimson. She 
remembered she would have to address the letter 
by some name to Hugh Ferrars ; and by what name? 
She hesitated; she looked at Ford; she knew not 
what to do. 

“ He — he does not wish any one to know that he 
is there,” she said at length. “Just ask to see the 
gentleman — say Mr. Dare — that will do; and give 
him this.” 

“Very well, my lady,” answered Ford, pocket- 
ing the letter. “ Shall I go at once?” 


PLAYING WITH FIRE. 


245 


“Yes, at once,” said Miriam, and as she spoke 
she heard her husband’s footsteps outside the door. 
The next moment Sir James rapped. 

“Come in,” said Miriam, in a faltering voice. 

“It’s. not bad out,” said Sir James, as he en- 
tered the room. “ Will you come, Miriam?” 

“Yes, in a moment, ” she answered. “Ford, 
give me my hat and cloak.” 

“Has Ford got her letter?” asked Sir James; 
smiling. 

“Yes, sir, thank you,” said Ford, smiling also. 

But Miriam said nothing. She hastily put on 
her hat and cloak, and went out with Sir James; 
and Ford also speedily attired herself for walk- 
ing. Then she sought out her young gillie, and 
learned from him the distance to Strathloe. He 
offered to escort her part of the way, as he also, 
he said, was going on his rounds down by the side 
of the loch. This exactly suited Ford, who always 
liked company if she could get it. In the mean 
while. Sir James and Miriam were inspecting the 
kennels, and having the horses trotted out. The 
day had improved ; the sun presently broke through 
the clouds, and shone on the wavelets of the loch. 

“ It’s quite fine, isn’t it?” said Sir James; “would 
you like to drive this afternoon, dear?” 

“No, I think not,” answered Miriam, “I think 
I will write to Joan, and to my mother, this after- 
noon, if you don’t mind.” 

Sir James looked a little disappointed. 

“You must just do as you like,” he said; “ but 
have you not time to do both?” 


246 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I am afraid not.” 

“ Well, then, in that case, I will ride over to see 
Harry Duncan, at Rowan. He’s an old chum of 
mine, and I should like to see him again before I 
leave here.” 

“And where is Rowan?” asked Miriam. 

“ Rowan Castle? Oh, it’s about eight miles 
from here; but I’ll be back in time for dinner.” 

Miriam suppressed a little sigh of relief. This 
was the opportunity she had hoped for, and then 
after to-day there would be no more secrets, no 
more fears. Her spirits, therefore, rose, and Sir 
James caught the infection. They talked and 
walked together until the luncheon hour, and then 
went into the house, both smiling. But Lady 
MacKennon received them without a smile. 

“ I am going over this afternoon, mother, to 
see Harry Duncan,” Sir James said presently. 
“ Have you any message for Mrs. Duncan?” 

“You can give her my regards,” answered the 
dowager. “And are you going also to Rowan?” 
she asked, looking at Miriam. 

“No; I am going to write letters, ” said Miriam. 

Lady MacKennon said nothing more. She fin- 
ished her luncheon and retired to her own sitting- 
room upstairs. She was suspicious; she resolved 
to watch Miriam ; but she gave no hint of this to 
her son. Sir James lingered chatting to Miriam, 
and it was nearly half-past two o’clock when he 
finally rang for his horse to be brought round. 
He kissed Miriam tenderly before he left her. 


PLAYING WITH FIRE. 


247 


“I wish you were going with me, darling,” he 
said. 

“Not to-day, James,” she answered; “but any 
other day I shall be very pleased to go with you 
anywhere.” 

“That’s all right. Give my love to them at 
Tyeford, and I hope your letter will find Mrs. 
Conray much better. Good-by. Take care of 
yourself until I come back,” and he took her hand 
and held it clasped for a few moments in his own. 

“ In what direction is Rowan Castle?” asked 
Miriam, as he did so. 

“ On the other side of the loch. You cannot see 
the road from here for the hills. Do you see that 
point there?” and he led her to the window. “ I 
will ride round the head of the loch there, and 
then across the hills to Rowan. Well, good-by 
again, darling.” 

Once more he kissed her, and then left the 
room. A groom was holding his horse ready for 
him to mount outside. Miriam watched him go, 
and then with a sigh turned from the window and 
went upstairs to her own bedroom. There she 
found Ford awaiting her with a face full of impor- 
tance. 

“Well, my lady,” she said in a half-whisper, as 
Miriam closed the door behind her as she entered 
the room, “ I’ve seen him." 

“Yes; did you give him the note?” asked Mir- 
iam quickly and nervously. 

“Yes, my lady, though I would scarcely have 


248 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


known him again. He’s not in uniform, but 
dressed like a gentleman; indeed, it’s plain to see 
he is a gentleman, and handsome. He read the 
note, and said he would walk down by the loch 
side at half-past three ; and he gave me a sover- 
eign.” 

“Yes; and did he look well?” 

“He’s a fine, handsome man!” replied Ford, in 
the tone of a connoisseur on manly beauty; “but 
he looked sorrowful; I noticed he’d a sad smile.” 

“ Poor fellow!” sighed Miriam. 

“Sir James has ridden out for the afternoon, 
Donald told me — or at least that he was going,” 
continued Ford. 

“ He has gone,” said Miriam ; then she went to 
the window and stood looking vaguely out on the 
darkening waters of the loch, for the sky was over- 
cast again, and its shadows gloomed the scene. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 

Let us follow Sir James as he rode briskly 
round the head of the loch, and then entered a 
picturesque defile between rugged precipitous 
cliffs, which soon completely hid the house at 
Kintore from his view. He was thinking very ten- 
derly of the fair young wife he had left behind 
there. He was angry with himself that even for 
a moment he had allowed his mother’s insinua- 
tions to darken his mind. It should never be so 
again, he told himself. He trusted her, and he 
would trust her always. Please God, no shadows 
should ever come between them ! 

He looked up and smiled as he came to this res- 
olution — ^looked up the sides of the deep gorge 
where he then was; where dense clumps of tall 
fir-trees grew; while higher up — overhanging, in- 
deed, in several places — were smaller groups of 
oak, birch, mountain-ash, and hazel. Sir James 
knew this pass well, had known it from his boy- 
hood; and it was his own. It was part of the in- 
heritance which had come to him from his father. 
He was prouder of these old hills than he was of 
the new wealth ; proud of their beauty and of the 
romantic legends and tales which clung to them. 
Sir James had had an old Highland nurse in his 
249 


250 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


childhood, and she had told him many a stirring 
story of the old days, before she herself had been 
borne away to sleep in the little kirkyard among 
the hills. 

He remembered her as he quitted the defile, and 
he smiled again. He was thinking that he should 
have liked this quaint old woman to have seen 
Miriam. Then some of her superstitions and her 
strange readings of dreams and warnings passed 
through his mind. He was riding a fine, spirited, 
young, gray horse, and as the roadway grew less 
narrow he slackened his hold on the reins. Pres- 
ently he reached some grass-land, and as he pro- 
ceeded leisurely on, suddenly his horse stumbled 
and fell. He had put his foot in a rabbit-hole, 
and came down a somewhat bad fall, bringing Sir 
James with him. Sir James was not hurt, and was 
up again in a minute; but it was not so with the 
poor horse. In falling he had cut his knees 
against a piece of gray granite stone, which had 
been partly invisible from • the treacherous moss 
which nearly hid it. Sir James examined the 
horse’s injuries and saw at once that the idea of 
proceeding to Rowan Castle on the animal was 
now impossible. He had, indeed, fallen dead 
lame, and there was nothing to do but to get him 
to a stable as soon as possible. Sir James thought 
of trying to get him back to Kintore, but quickly 
remembered that he was nearer to the village of 
Strathloe by at least a mile, that a farrier lived 
there, and that he could be put up at the stables of 
the little inn. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


251 


He began to lead his limping horse very slowly 
and quietly in the direction of Strathloe. It took 
him some time to reach the village, and when at 
last he did so he went straight to the Inn. He 
was nearly at the open door when there passed out 
of it a tall, fine-looking man, who, however, appar- 
ently did not see him, but turned the other way 
and went toward a narrow path which would lead 
him to the side of the loch. 

But Sir James had seen his face, and something 
in it — its remarkable regularity and the clear 
darkness of the skin — struck him as being famil- 
iar to him. A moment later all the hangers-on 
about the Inn, the ostler, and presently the land- 
lord, were round him bemoaning the accident to 
his horse. The farrier was sent for, and while Sir 
James was waiting for his arrival, he asked the 
landlord who the gentleman was who had just left 
the Inn door. 

“He’s called Mr. Dare, sir,” replied the land- 
lord, “ and he arrived here to stay yesterday ; I 
take him to be an army gentleman.” 

“Dare!” repeated Sir James, wondering where 
he had heard the name and seen the face. It sud- 
denly flashed back to his memory. He was the 
soldier he had seen at Newbrough-on-the-Sea; the 
soldier who had been shot on the sands, and whose 
life Miriam was supposed to have saved. 

A strange feeling stole into Sir James’ heart — 
a feeling which made him somewhat indifferent 
to the farrier’s opinion as to the injuries of his 
horse. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


252 

“What was the man doing here? Why was he 
dressed like a gentleman?” Then he recollected 
that several people at Newbrongh-on-the-Sea had 
believed him to be one. Sir James bit his lips 
and pulled his moustaches, and then agreed that 
his horse should be at once taken to the Inn stables 
and attended to. After this, he asked the land- 
lord another question about “Mr. Dare.” 

“ Did he say where he came from, landlord?” 

“No, Sir James, he did not; but I take it that 
it was frae England. A lass brought a note for 
him here this morning, and wad gie’ it into his ain 
hand, and some o’ the folks said the lass was frae 
Kintore.” 

Sir James said nothing more. He put some 
money in the landlord’s hand, told him to see after 
the horse, and that he would send a groom up, and 
strode away, going down the narrow pathway 
which the stranger had taken, which led toward 
the borders of the loch. 

As he reached the head of this pathway, he saw 
the man whom he believed to be the soldier Dare 
going on before him. All the country round was 
familiar to Sir James, and he walked on, the tall 
form in front preceding him with hasty foot- 
steps. Sir James saw him reach the border of the 
loch ; saw him begin to pass down by its side ; and 
still he went on. Another mile would bring him 
in sight of Kintore. “Was he going there?” Sir 
James asked himself, with a fierce throb at his 
heart. 

“I will see, at all events!” he muttered under 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


253 


his breath. So he stalked the man for the next 
half-hour. He did not follow him directly by the 
border of the loch. At a little distance from it, 
and beyond it, there was a low range of hills, 
skirted by dark fir-trees, and behind these Sir 
JameS'-gloomily walked on, keeping the man be- 
fore him always in view. He had a field-glass 
with him, as near Rowan Castle, there was a deer 
forest, and Sir James had thought when he had 
ridden out that perhaps he and his friend Mr. 
Duncan might have a chance of sighting the herd. 
He unslung this glass now, but he scarcely needed 
it. Before him was the tall figure, and he could 
see very plainly. He went on and on — on until 
he came in sight of the house at Kintore — until he 
neared it; and then he stopped. 

Sir James stopped, too. He raised his field- 
glass; he looked at the house; and as he did this 
he distinctly saw something white waved from 
one of the upper windows. Then he half-laughed. 

“ What a fool I have been !” he thought. “ It is 
that little idiot Ford, Miriam’s maid, who has an 
intrigue with this fellow, and he has come to Scot- 
land to see her. As if Miriam ” then he raised 

his glass again; the handkerchief was still wav- 
ing, and Sir James began counting the windows, 
and saw the white signal floating from one of the 
windows of Miriam' s room ! 

A sort of faintness came over him ; and yet he 
still told himself it was folly. Of course it was 
Ford; but he would watch and see. The man by 
the loch-side remained standing, and Sir James 


254 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


saw him wave his handkerchief also! It was the 
answering signal. No doubt the next thing he 
would see would be Ford coming from the house 
to join him. 

He had not long to wait. Five minutes later 
he saw a female figure issue from the gates of 
Kintore, and go down the steps which led from 
the grounds to the loch-side. A female figure! 
Sir James’ hand shook so it was a few moments 
before he could steady his field-glass sufficiently 
to bear upon this female form. When he did so 
he started, gave a suppressed cry, and his face 
blanched. It was not the smart little figure of 
Ford, the lady’s maid ; but the tall, slender, grace- 
ful one of Miriam, his wife! 

Of Miriam ! It was a terrible and bitter blow, 
and smote through Sir James’ heart like a sharp 
sword. For a short time he stood overwhelmed, 
motionless; then, little by little, like a man in a 
bad dream, the past rose in a grim vista before 
him. His mother’s story of General Conray’s 
visit; the dead lover, supposed to be slain by the 
man she had loved ! Oh ! it was horrible, too hor- 
rible ! This was the shy, innocent girl, so fair, so 
modest, that he had gathered to his breast! This 
woman receiving letters addressed to her maid, 
making excuses to remain at home, and then steal- 
ing out in secret from her husband’s house to meet 
her lover! To meet a soldier— a private soldier! 
Sir James clenched his hands in jealous rage, and 
the blood flew with hot passion to his head. 

What should he do? He raised his glass again. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


255 


The two on the loch-side were approaching each 
other now. Miriam — dressed in some dark cos- 
tume, and wearing the sables he had given her in 
Paris — was advancing slowly, but the man eagerly 
and hastily was going forward. Then they met; 
met with outstretched hands — both hands— and 
stood there hand-clasped, looking into each other’s 
eyes! 

A curse broke from Sir James’ lips — a curse so 
loud and bitter that it seemed to rend the man’s 
heart in twain. Still he watched them. They 
turned ; they walked together, side by side, by the 
waters of the darkening loch. Then they stopped, 
and again their hands clasped. After a while they 
walked on once more, going in the direction from 
which the man had come, and away from Kintore. 

Sir James turned also. Step by step, he on the 
rugged hill-side, they by the loch, the three went 
on. They went nearly as far as the village of 
Strathloe — close to the Glen of Strathloe — and 
then they stopped. The man took her in his arms 
and pressed her to his breast. Their lips met, and 
then the pale stern watcher turned away. 

It was all over! It had needed but this! A 
great darkness fell upon his soul, and hatred for 
the woman whom he believed had betrayed him 
— hatred, stronger for the very love he had borne 
her — the wife of his bosom, the love of his heart! 
He laughed aloud in his great bitterness and mis- 
ery. He remembered little things as he strode 
back fiercely to Kintore; remembered the money 
Miriam had borrowed of him before their mar- 


256 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


riage, no doubt to give to her paramour. Oh ! the 
black bitterness of it — the shame! He had kivSsed 
her before he had gone out, and she had shyly re- 
turned his kiss; now she was kissing another 
man! Her lips were foul for evermore; the lying 
lips that had seemed so sweet and fair. Sir James 
felt almost like a madman. The blood surged to 
his head, and the veins on his throat swelled. 
He walked at a great pace, but he took no heed 
of the ground. The world had suddenly become 
desolate to him ; worse than desolate — filled with 
disgrace and shame. 

He reached Kintore, and as he entered the hall 
his mother, who had been watching for him, went 
out to meet him. 

“James,” she said, and her face was stern and 
pale, “ I have something to say to you. Come in 
here,” and she drew him by his arm into the 
breakfast-room . 

“James,” she continued, “your wife is not in 
the house. She went out, I feel convinced, for 
some secret purpose. It is your duty ” * 

He pulled his arm roughly from her hand. 

“ I do not need you to tell me!” he said darkly, 
and then, without another word, he left her — left 
her and went upstairs to his dressing-room, and 
sat there in his misery alone. 

“He has found her out!” thought Lady Mac- 
Kennon, with sombre satisfaction. “She has 
played with fire too long.” 

But now let us go back for a moment to the two 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


257 - 


who had met by the loch — to the two who had 
once loved each other so well, but those lives had 
been rent apart by sin and crime. Miriam had 
gone to meet Hugh Ferrars with a sinking heart ; 
had gone, feeling that to do so was to a certain 
extent wronging the generous man who com- 
pletely trusted her. But it was for the last time, 
she told herself. She must think of Joan — must 
save Hugh Ferrars — if she could. 

So she had given the signal — the last signal — 
and had gone down to the lone loch-side. There 
was not a living creature to be seen, where the 
water lapped on the shore along a wide expanse, 
but one. She saw the tall figure standing, and 
her heart beat fast and her breath came short. 
He approached, and they met with clasped hands 
almost in silence. It was Hugh Ferrars who 
spoke first. 

“ I thank you for granting my last request,” he 
said. 

“And you are going at once, Hugh?” said Mir- 
iam eagerly, looking up in his face. “You will 
make no delay, but leave England at once?” 

“I am going at once,” he answered slowly. 

“ I have brought the money,” continued Miriam. 
“ Two hundred pounds. That will take you abroad ; 
and if you want any more ” 

“ I do not want any more, dear; nor that,” said 
Hugh iPerrars, with strange gentleness, as Miriam 
paused and hesitated. 

“ But, Hugh, you must require money. Do take 
it. Here it is, do not refuse.” 

17 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


258 

“ I cannot take it ! I have as much as I shall re- 
quire.” 

“ But how can that be? O Hugh, I have suffered 
'such agonies of fear since General Conray came. 
Poor, poor Joan ! is it not a terrible thing that her 
mind should have wandered as it did?” 

“ I cannot pity her; but for her we might have 
been happy now, instead of about — to part for- 
ever.” 

“ vStill, it is very sad,” said Miriam, and her eyes 
filled with tears. 

“ Sad for us. She wrecked our lives, and left 
us nothing but misery. At least — she left me 
nothing. ” 

“ But — but this may change. You are going to 
begin a new life in a new land ; let us hope it will 
be a brighter one.” 

“No!” said Hugh Ferrars, briefly and bitterly. 

“Oh! yes, we must hope,” continued Miriam 
pleadingly. “ Let us walk on a little, Hugh, and 
tell me of your plans?” 

“ I have none.” 

“ But you know where you are going?” 

“No, not even that.” 

“O Hugh, please do not talk thus! I should 
go to Australia if I were you, and take some land 
there.” 

“Yes,” said Hugh Ferrars, with a melancholy 
smile. 

He was pale and worn, and his singularly hand- 
some features seemed sharpened. Miriam looked 
up in his face with her heart full of pity, and with 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 259 

an unconscious wave of the old tenderness and 
love swelling in her heart. 

He seemed to understand this, for he took her 
hand, and for a moment or two they stood in si- 
lence, vaguely watching the water lapping on the 
marge. 

“We loved each other very well,” he said at 
length. 

“ Yes, but — but, we must not speak of it now. 
You must think of me as a sister, as a friend,” 
answered Miriam, struggling with her emotion. 

“No; I shall always think of you as my love, 
my only love.” 

“O Hugh!” 

“ It will be perhaps only for a little time that 
we shall be separated; a little space of time.” 

“No, no!” said Miriam quickly; “we must 
never meet again, Hugh ; this must be our last 
meeting.” 

“ Yes, on earth; but that is not forever.” 

“You — you must forget me.” 

“ I never shall.” 

' “ But Hugh, it is wrong; it is wicked of me to 

let you talk thus. You forget ” 

“No, I do not forget. You are Sir James Mac- 
Kennon’s wife; but marriage does not make love, 
and your love is mine. ” 

Miriam was silent. There was a dim conscious- 
ness in her heart that his words were not quite true 
—that another feeling had crept there; but of 
this she could not speak. 

“ You would make me very happy if you would 


26 o 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


take the money I have brought,” she said; “and 
then I must go home. ” 

“ So soon? Do not grudge me an hour — one 
short, brief hour. ” 

“Well, if you like, I will stay a little longer.” 

“ Yes, do. Let us cheat ourselves ; fancy we are 
once more in the old dear days, just for an hour. 
Let us forget the hideous past ; forget everything 
but our love.” 

“Oh! hush, Hugh, hush!” 

“ Do you remember the moonlight night at Tye- 
f ord when we first met in secret, Miriam ? I can see 
the waves still with their silver crests, and hear 
their moan. Your head was upon my breast, then, 
Miriam; let it rest there a moment now.” 

“I cannot! I cannot! O Hugh, talking thus 
only makes us more miserable. It is far better 
that we should say good-by.” 

“ Don’t cheat me of my last hour. My love, an- 
swer me this question : Do you believe that those 
whose souls and hearts are knit as fast as ours can 
ever change — in all time, through all eternity?” 

“How can I tell, Hugh?” said Miriam, raising 
her dark eyes to his ; “ how can I lift the veil that 
is between us and death?” 

“ But some day it will be lifted ; some day the 
weary bonds of earth will fall away.” 

Miriam slightly shuddered. 

“ I look beyond them,” continued Hugh Ferrars. 
“ I feel in that Hereafter my soul will be with you. ” 

“Yet I have only wrought you misery here, 
Hugh — me and mine.” 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


261 


“ And great joy. Was it not joy to know of your 
love — to feel it now? You will never forget me, 
Miriam?” 

“No, no. But you frighten me; I feel guilty 
to listen to such words.” 

“Who is to hear them? See that wild duck 
there, skimming on the loch; will he tell his mate 
of a man’s last despairing words to the woman he 
loves? There is no other listener.” 

“ But why need you despair. In a new land ” 

“Yes, in a new land, where there will he no 
more trouble, no more bitter regret.” 

There must always be regret for us, Hugh — 
bitter regret ; but still we ought to try to do what 
is right now; and I shall be so much happier 
when I know you are safe.” 

“You will soon know it, dear.” 

“And do take the money, to please your old 
friend,” urged Miriam. 

“ I would do anything to please my old friend, 
as you call yourself ; but I do not want the money; 
I have more than I want.” 

“ Then I will say no more. Now, Hugh, I must 
say good-by. ” 

He stood looking at her in silence for a moment 
or two, then took her in his arms, and held her to 
his breast, passionately kissing her lipS; 

“ My love, my love!” he murmured. 

“Good-by, dear Hugh,” whispered Miriam, in 
a voice broken with a sob. 

“ For a little while — only for a little while,” said 
Ferrars. 


262 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“Good-by,” again said Miriam, trying to re- 
lease herself from his arms, but he held her fast. 

“Stay a little; remember it is the last time. 
It is harder to part even than I thought.” 

“ But we must part — go, dear Hugh. God bless 
you and keep you on your journey.” 

Again he kissed her ; again he clasped her to his 
breast ; and then they parted, Hugh Ferrars watch- 
ing her with strained eyes as with trembling foot- 
steps she hurried homeward. 

She was agitated and moved to the very heart- 
strings. She was frightened also ; frightened by 
Hugh Ferrars’ despairing words, and also with the 
fear that her absence should be noticed in the 
household. She therefore walked on as quickly 
as she could, and was almost breathless when she 
reached the steps which led from the loch-side to 
the grounds of Kin tore. 

Here she paused a moment to collect herself, 
and glanced half-frightened backward. But Fer- 
rars had not followed her. Then she ascended 
the steps, passed through the grounds, and entered 
the hall while the butler was in the very act of 
lighting. She did not speak to him, but went up 
the staircase to her own room and entered it. It- 
was getting a little dusk now, so she lit one of 
the candles on the toilet-table. As she did so, she 
thought something stirred in the adjoining dress- 
ing-room — her husband’s dressing-room. She 
went to the open door, and saw Sir James stand- 
ing by the window. 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


263 


“James, have 3"0'u got back?” she said. 

At the sound of her voice he turned round and 
looked at her; and when she saw the expression 
of his face she gave a little cry. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 


BITTER WORDS. 

Still Sir James did not speak. He stood there 
looking at her, haggard, hollow-eyed, like a man 
whose death-warrant had just fallen on his ears. 

“ Is there anything the matter?” at last asked 
Miriam falteringly. 

Then Sir James’ tongue was loosed. 

“Why have you come back?” he asked darkly, 
hoarsely ; “ back to the home you have dishonored. ” 

“James!” 

“Don’t call me James; don’t speak to me!” 
continued Sir James, with rising passion. “ I saw 
it with my own eyes. I would believe nothing 
against you — nothing that others were ready to 
whisper in my ears. But I saw you steal out to 
meet the man Dare — the soldier who has followed 
you here. I saw you in his arms ! It was enough, 
and everything is ended between us!” 

Miriam did not speak. Her face blanched and 
her lips trembled ; but still she looked up into her 
husband’s face as he launched his bitter accusa- 
tions against her. 

“ To have fallen so low ! Who, to look at you, 
would believe it possible? To have a letter sent to 
you addressed to your maid — letters from your 
264 


BITTER WORDS. 


265 


lover ; and to send your maid with letters to him ! 
You see, I know everything; so any denial on 
your part is useless.” 

“I am not denying anything,” said Miriam; 
“but you are mistaken.” 

“Mistaken!” cried Sir James with a bitter 
laugh ; “ would that I were ; but I know that I am 
not. I even saw your vile signals from the window 
of your husband’s house. Had you no thought of 
your good name nor mine? Why did you marry 
me? But I need not ask.” 

“ I married you, meaning to act rightly to you, 
and I have done you no wrong,” answered Mir- 
iam, more firmly. “What you saw was a last 
parting with an old friend, who is leaving England 
at once. ” 

“ You had better go with him, ” scoffed Sir James. 

“ No, James,” said Miriam, bursting into sudden 
tears. “I will not go with him; I have no wish 
to go with him, though you may not believe me.” 

“ I do not believe you ; or I believe you this 
far: that you prefer the comforts of the home I 
can give you to the one you would share with a 
private soldier! I am honored, truly; you wish 
to stay under your husband’s roof and meet your 
lovers outside it.” 

“Say no more; that is enough!” cried Miriam. 
“ I will not stay under your roof to listen to such 
words. ” 

“No, you certainly shall not stay under my 
roof, ” said Sir J ames, with gloomy emphasis ; “ my 
roof shall never shelter a dishonored wife.” 


266 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


He Spoke these words loudl)’, passionately, and 
then left the room, leaving Miriam overwhelmed 
with this sudden blow. That he should speak thus 
to her — he who seemed to love her so deeply, that 
he never seemed happy out of her presence. She 
forgot that it was this very love which made him 
so harsh and bitter; forgot that she had fatally 
compromised herself in his sight. She had gone 
out to meet Hugh Ferrars with no thought of 
wronging Sir James; had gone to try to help 
Ferrars to escape, and also to avoid the tragic 
story of the death of Robert Conray being revived. 
She had hoped that her husband would never hear 
it, and that Joan’s delirious words would never 
reach his ears. And this was the end of it! Mir- 
iam wrung her hands and wept the bitterest tears 
as she sat there alone in the gathering darkness 
after Sir James left her. 

“ I bring nothing but misery !” she cried ; “ mis- 
ery to Hugh, and now to poor James! Misery — 
and, he said, disgrace. But I shall never do that 
— never, never, whatever he may say!” 

His words, in truth, had cut her to the heart. 

“ He was always so good and kind,” she moaned. 
“ Oh ! so good ; and that I should have wounded 
him so! And I cannot tell him the truth, or per- 
haps he might forgive me; but no, no, that is im- 
possible. Hugh Ferrars’ life and Joan’s home and 
honor depend on my silence. I must bear the loss 
of his love — of everything ; but it was hard, hard 
of him to speak such words.” 

She know not how long she sat there bemoan- 


BITTER WORDS. 267 

ing her fate. But after some time a rap came to 
the door, and Ford Entered. 

“Oh! my lady!” she said when she saw Mir- 
iam’s bowed figure. 

Ford already knew some tragedy had happened 
in the family. Dinner had been served, but 
only the Dowager Lady MacKennon had appeared 
at the board. Sir James had gone out with a 
gloomy brow, armed with a heavy dog-whip ; and 
Miriam had never rung for her maid to dress 
her, and Ford had been afraid to intrude. 

“But she can’t starve, whatever happens,” she 
had said to the butler. The butler agreed with 
her, and between them they settled that Ford 
should go upstairs and see what refreshment young 
Lady MacKennon would partake of. 

“ I advise a bottle of champagne, Ford. You 
recommend that, ” said the butler; “ it raises the 
spirits better when they are down than anything, 
and I suppose the young couple have had a quarrel 
or some nonsense?” 

Ford discreetly pursed her pretty lips. She had 
given out in the household, at Kintore, that she 
was on very confidential terms with her lady, and 
the butler was curious to know if she knew any 
more than he did. But to do Ford justice she 
made no revelations. She said nothing, but looked 
much, and then went upstairs t6 see what her lady 
would take. 

As Ford entered the room, Miriam raised her 
tear-stained face. The candle she had lit was 
still burning, and by it Ford saw the tears, and 


268 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


grew afraid that something dreadful had hap- 
pened. 

“My lady, you must have something to eat,” 
continued Ford, lighting the other candles and 
stirring the fire. “ I have brought 5^ou up a little 
champagne; will you try that? And don’t give 
way so ; I dare say it will all come right. ” 

Miriam shook her head despairingly. 

“I am sure I was always against it,” went on 
Ford; “always frightened, my lady. You see 
there are such spies about, and I suppose some of 
them have been carrying tales to Sir James’ ears. 
He’s not been in to dinner, but has gone out with 
such a face, the butler says. ” 

“Gone out!” interrupted Miriam. 

“Yes, my lady,” but Ford had the discretion to 
drop the story of the dog-whip, as she justly 
thought it would only make matters worse. “ But 
never mind just now. Do try a little champagne ; 
it will cheer you, and you see the butler has drawn 
the cork. ” 

Miriam drank a little of the sparkling wine Ford 
held toward her, for she felt utterly worn out alike 
in mind and body. The long walk she had taken, 
and the excitement she had gone through, had 
completely worn her out, and she felt half fainting. 

“And now you must have something to eat,” 
said Ford. “There’s some lovely chicken and 
tongue. I will bring it up in a minute.” 

“No, I can eat nothing. I am very tired ; I 
will lie down, I think.” 

“Now, my lady, we’ll just have you in a fever 


BITTER WORDS. 


269 


again, like you were at Newbrough-on-the-Sea, if 
you don’t eat something. Do try. Is there any- 
thing else you would like? The butler said there 
was pheasant.” 

“ I will have some tea; nothing else.” 

She could not, indeed, be persuaded to break 
her fast. Her lips felt parched, her hands began 
to burn, and her head and heart ached. She lay 
on the bed. Ford went in and out of the room, 
and in about two hours later came to tell her that 
Sir James had returned. 

“ I thought you would like to know, my lady,” 
she said. 

“Yes, thank you,” answered Miriam. 

It was, indeed, a relief to her mind to know that 
he was in the house again, and she lay hoping he 
would come up to inquire about her. But no; 
she saw nothing of him ; and so the weary hours 
of night dragged their slow length away. 


What the butler had told Ford was quite true, — 
that Sir James had gone out at dinner-time armed 
with a heavy dog-whip. He had left Miriam, in- 
deed, with his heart bursting with rage, jealousy, 
and despair. But he would revenge himself on 
that hound, he told himself, as he strode down- 
stairs. He went to the whip-rack, and took the 
heaviest whip he could find there. He meant to 
horsewhip Dare, and he walked as quickly as he 
could along the loch-side to Strathloe, full of this 
purpose. But when he reached the little inn, he 
was doomed to be disappointed. As he entered 


270 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


the open door the landlord appeared, deferentially, 
to welcome him. 

“ You have come to see about your horse. Sir 
James?’' he said. 

Sir James had forgotten all about his horse — had 
forgotten everything but the overpowering jealous 
passion in his heart. 

“ I came to see that man who is staying here — 
Dare,-” he said abruptly. 

“Then, Sir James, you’re too late,” replied the 
landlord. “Mr. Dare cam’ in an hour or so ago 
and called for his reckoning. It wasn’t much, and 
he paid it, with something besides, and went away. 
But he’s left his bag behind him, sa maybe he'll 
soon be back again, but he didn’t say sa. ” 

An oath rose on Sir James’s lips which with 
difficulty he suppressed. 

“ He seemed sare downhearted, the wife said, 
when he cam’ in,” continued the landlord. “I 
fear he’s had ill news, for he was a pleasant-spoken 
gentleman.” 

Sir James asked nothing further. His enemy 
was gone ; he was baulked of his vengeance ; so 
he strode out of the little inn without once men- 
tioning his horse, to the utter astonishment of the 
landlord. 

“Something’s gane wrang wi’ Sir James,” he 
decided ; but he was a discreet man and kept his 
opinion to himself. 

Something, indeed, had gone wrong with him ! 
In one afternoon he had lost all interest in life, 
all hope. It seemed to him, as he walked back 


BITTER WORDS. 


271 


to Kintore, that everything was done for him. 
There was a stony look of grief in his eye — a stony 
weight of grief on his heart. His mother, who 
had been watching for him anxiously, went out to 
meet him as he entered the hall, and drew him 
into the dining-room where she had kept the din- 
ner waiting for him. But Sir James refused to 
break bread. He drank some whiskey and sat 
staring into the fire like a man distraught. 

“ O James, you should not give way thus,” said 
the Dowager, going up to his chair, and laying 
her hand on his shoulder. She was frightened. 
She had done her duty; but it seemed to have 
broken her son’s heart! 

“ It’s flying against the Will of Providence, 
James,” continued Lady MacKennon. “ I lost your 
father, and I bore it ; you have but lost your wife — 
an unworthy wife, for I see it in your face — and 
you should at least try to bear it like a man.” 

Sir James gave a harsh and bitter laugh, and 
pushed his mother’s wrinkled hand away. 

“ Does her unworthiness make it less hard to 
bear, do you think?” he cried, starting to his feet 
and beginning to pace the room. “Mother, I 
swear,” he added, “ I should rather have seen her 
dead, though my heart would have been buried 
in her grave, than have learnt what I know to- 
day.” 

“I warned you, James.” 

“Yes, you poisoned my happiness! But for 
you I should not have been the miserable man I 
am now.” 


272 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Lady MacKennon was silent, for liis words 
stung her. 

“ I shall leave England ; I shall go to India, and 
a stray shot, or a fever may make an end of me 
there. Yes, mother, you will soon be rid of your 
son,” and in this wild and reckless mood Sir James 
spent the rest of the night. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


SUMMONED. 

About two o’clock in the morning Sir James at 
last flung himself on the dining-room couch, and 
after telling his mother to go to bed, fell into a 
restless slumber. But Lady MacKennon did not 
leave him. She sat in a large easy-chair by the 
fire all through the long hours, till the gloomy 
dawn ; her gray face growing grayer, and her 
features more pinched and haggard. Whatever 
she was, she loved her son, and to see him in the 
state he was seemed terrible to her. She did not 
sleep, but sat listening to him muttering and 
groaning, either in his dreams or between them. 
He could not see her, as a tall screen was be- 
tween them, and Sir James was actually uncon- 
scious of her presence until the chill November 
light began to steal into the room. Then he rose 
to go to the table to get some water to quench his 
thirst, and for the first time saw his mother. 

“Why, mother! You here? You surely have 
not been here all night?” 

“Yes, James,” replied the gray old woman, and 
some of Sir James’ better nature at once returned 
to him. 

“ Why did you sit up? You should not have sat 
i8 273 


274 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


up, mother,” he said. “Go to bed now, or you 
will make yourself ill.” 

“ No, my dear; I would rather stay with you.” 

Sir James looked at his watch. 

“ It’s actually only a quarter to eight,” he said. 
“I’ll go and have a tub, and that will freshen 
me up a bit. I am sorry, mother, you sat up.” 

“I was happier near you, James,” and Lady 
MacKennon rose stiffly, for the cold had chilled 
her joints, and went up to her son and kissed him. 

Nothing was said between them of the cause of 
her long vigil. Sir James had a bath, and sent 
his man to his dressing-room for a change of 
clothes. In the adjoining room Miriam and Ford, 
who was with her, heard some one enter the dress- 
ing-room. 

“Is that Sir James?” whispered Miriam ex- 
citedly. 

“I’ll see,” answered Ford, and at once crossing 
the room she applied her eye to the keyhole of 
the dressing-room door. 

Then she returned to Miriam. 

“ No, my lady; it’s only Stubbs,” she said. Mir- 
iam sank back on her pillows with a sigh. 

After a while Sir James went back to the dining- 
room, and found Duncan, the butler, laying the 
breakfast- table. Then Lady MacKennon came 
back ; she also had done what she could to improve 
her appearance. But she looked so worn and hag- 
gard that her son’s heart smote him. He spoke 
to her, and by and by they sat down to breakfast. 
But Sir James could not eat. Food seemed to re- 


SUMMONED. 


^ 275 

volt him, and Lady MacKennon watched him with 
uneasy eyes. At last he spoke of Miriam. 

“ Has any one seen after — her, mother?” he said. 

“ Her maid is attending to her,” replied Lady 
MacKennon coldly, and Sir James said no more. 

Breakfast was not finished when the letter-bag 
was brought in, and a telegram. The telegram 
was addressed to Sir James. He tore it hastily 
open, and as he read it he gave an exclamation. 

“What is it? Is anything the matter?” asked 
Lady MacKennon. 

“It is from Mrs. Clyde,” answered Sir James. 
“ Mrs. Conray, her daughter, is, they fear, sinking. 
It is to summon Miriam to her side. ” 

For a moment or two Lady MacKennon did not 
speak. 

“Miriam must know at once,” continued Sir 
James, and he rose and rang the bell. 

“I can tell her,” said Lady MacKennon. 

“No,” answered Sir James briefly; and when 
the butler answered the bell, he desired him to 
send Lady MacKennon ’s maid to him at once. 

The butler carried this message to Ford, who 
was having her breakfast in the servants’ hall. 
Ford grew pale when she listened to it, then burst 
into rather an hysterical giggle. 

“ I am going to catch it, I expect,” she said ; but 
she at once rose and went to the dining-room. 

“ Ford,” said Sir James, at once addressing her, 
“ I have some news to communicate to your lady; 
is she up?” 

“No, Sir James, she is not,” answered Ford de- 


276 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


murely. “ She has had a very bad night ; in fact, 
I may say, she has never slept at all.” 

“ Tell her I wish to see her — that I have some- 
thing to tell her. Then let me know when she is 
ready to receive me.” 

“ Yes, Sir James. Is that all that I have to say 
to my lady?” 

“Yes, that is all; you can go now.” 

During this brief conference. Lady MacKennon 
spoke not a single word. But as the door closed 
behind Ford she looked anxiously at her son. 

“O James, is that wise?” she said. 

“ It is right, ” answered Sir J ames. “ Y ou would 
not surely keep her from her dying sister’s side?” 

“ No— but ” 

“ Mother, do not interfere. I will give her her 
mother’s message; it is better she should go 
to-day.” 

Ford had run up to her lady’s room as swiftly 
as her light feet could carry her. 

“ Oh ! my lady, ” she cried, hurrying to Miriam’s 
bedside, “ Sir James sent for me; he wishes to see 
you; he told me to tell you he has something to 
say to you. ” 

Miriam started up in bed. 

“What can it be! Oh! can it be anything 
dreadful. I am so afraid, so afraid,” said Miriam 
with great agitation. 

“ I would get up, my lady, and have a good wash. 
Let me do your hair, and look as well as you can, 
for looks go a long way with gentlemen,” answered 
the practical Ford. Miriam rose, and Ford dressed 


SUMMONED. 277 

her; but even Ford could not make poor Miriam 
look well. 

She was white, and her eyes were heavy and 
violet-rimmed. She felt ill, and trembled so vio- 
lently that she could scarcely stand. But Ford 
arrayed her in a cream tea-gown, and brushed her 
tangled hair; but told herself despondingly that 
all her efforts did not seem to do much good. At 
last she went down to tell Sir James that her lady 
was ready to receive him. Sir James rose with a 
gloomy brow and a heavy heart to go to his wife’s 
room. 

He rapped at the door, and a faint voice bade 
him “ come in.” - He did go in, and found Miriam 
sitting trembling on an easy-chair. She made no 
attempt to rise as he entered. 

He exchanged no salutation with her. For a mo- 
ment he stood looking at her, and a sort of pity crept 
into his heart as he noted her changed appear- 
ance. But the next a stern feeling checked this. 

“I have heard from your mother,” he began: 
“have had a telegram from her. Your sister is 
worse. ” 

“Joan!” cried Miriam, starting to her feet. 

“ Yes, and they wish you to be there. I have 
come to tell you that you had better start to-day — 
if you are able to go. ” 

“ Oh ! I must go. Mother would not have sent 
such a telegram unless Joan was very ill. Oh! 
this is dreadful, dreadful ! How can I go, James?” 

“ Do 3^ou mean by what train?” 

“ Yes — and — and will you go with me?” 


278 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I think it would be very unadvisable. ” 

“ But I am so ill and weak I feel I could not travel 
alone. Can you not send any one with me?” and 
Miriam wrung her hands. 

“Your maid will go with you; and I can send 
Duncan, the butler, if you wish it. He has been 
here twenty years, and he will see after you. ” 

“ Thank you ; please send him. How soon can I 
go?” 

“ There is a train passes the nearest station at 
eleven o’clock.” 

“I will go by that — and — and, James, before I 
go, will you forgive me?” 

“I cannot,” said Sir James, gloomily turning 
away. 

“At least, do not think very ill of me,” went on 
Miriam pleadingly. “ I was foolish, but that was 
all, James; indeed, indeed, it was!” 

“ Do not let us speak of it ; you will want all 
your strength for this hasty journey. I will order 
the carriage to be ready to take you to the station, 
and will tell Duncan to accompany you. I have 
nothing more to say. ” As he spoke the last words 
he turned and left the room. 

For a moment or two after he was gone Miriam 
felt half stunned. His coldness, his utter estrange- 
ment, filled her with dismay ; but she was forced 
to rouse herself. Joan was worse ; they had sum- 
moned her to Tyeford, and she had not a moment 
to lose. She rang for Ford, and the next hour or 
so was spent in arranging for the journey. Then 
Ford brought up a luncheon tray. 


SUMMONED. 


279 


“ I heard Sir James himself, my lady, give orders 
to Duncan that I had to bring up a tray, and Dun- 
can is packing a luncheon basket by Sir James’ 
orders too. Do try to eat something, for you had 
no breakfast.” 

Miriam made no answer, for she could not 
speak. 

“He thinks of me still,” she was thinking. 
“ He — he was always good.” 

She did not see him again until she was on the 
point of leaving the house, where she had gone 
such a short time ago as a bride. She thought he 
was not going to appear at all, but just as she was 
crossing the hall, followed by Ford — the luggage 
having been already placed on the carriage — Sir 
James came out of the dining-room, grave and 
pale, and offered his arm to lead her to the car- 
riage. 

He did not speak, and Miriam understood the 
motive for this light courtesy. He did not wish 
the servants to know of their estrangement, and 
as he handed her into the carriage, Miriam said 
.tremulously, “I will write, James.” 

He made no reply, but closed the carriage door 
and directed the coachman to drive on. Suddenly, 
as if he had remembered something, he put a roll 
of notes in her hand. 

“You will want money on your journey,” he 
said. 

“No, I have plenty,” answered Miriam hastily; 
but he took no notice of this, and merely once 
more directed the coachman to drive on, and the 


28 o 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


notes were left in Miriam’s listless hand. She 
bent forward to look at him again as the carriage 
drove away, and saw him standing bareheaded, 
watching it, before he turned to go into his deso- 
lated home. 

The journey from the Highlands to Tyeford 
Hall was a long and dreary one, and with delays 
and cross trains it was past twelve o’clock on the 
following day before Miriam, worn and weary, 
arrived there. She was received at the door by 
her father. Colonel Clyde, who took her in his 
arms and kissed her as he handed her out of the 
carriage, which was with him a very unusual 
mark of affection. 

“Joan?” said Miriam eagerly, looking up into 
his face. 

Colonel Clyde sadly shook his head. 

“ I am afraid she is leaving us,” he said. “ The 
doctors give us little hope. ” 

“O father! how dreadful!” cried Miriam, 
clinging to her father’s arm for support. He led 
her into the house, where General Conray was sit- 
ting with his bowed gray head and grief-lined face. 

He rose to receive Miriam, and then said in a 
low tone : 

“ She is most anxious to see you ; she has asked 
for you more than once.” 

“I — will go to her,” answered Miriam, with a 
faltering tongue. 

“ Rest a little, and compose yourself first, my 
dear,” said Colonel Clyde kindly. 


SUMMONED. 


281 


Miriam sat down and tried to recover herself 
for a few minutes, and then Colonel Clyde went 
up to tell her mother of her arrival. 

“ She will break it to Joan,” he said. When he 
returned he told Miriam that Joan wished to see 
her at once. 

So, pale and trembling in every limb, Miriam 
went up to her dying sister’s room. Her mother 
came to the door to receive her, silently kissed her, 
and led her in. 

“Here is Miriam, Joan, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Clyde. Miriam went toward the bed on which 
Joan Conray lay, feebly breathing her last hours 
away. 

She was terribly changed, her beauty blighted 
and shrunk like a dying flower’s. But she knew 
Miriam at once, and tried to lift her wasted hand 
in greeting. 

“Joan, dear Joan!” said Miriam, bending over 
her, and kissing her fondly. 

“ I am glad you have come,” said Joan, in a low 
whisper. “ I have something to say to you, 
Miriam, before I die.” 

“ O dear Joan !” 

“Mother, will you leave us?” continued Joan, 
speaking a little louder. “ I wish to be alone with 
Miriam.” 

“ Certainly, my dear, ” replied Mrs. Clyde ; “ but 
you know you must not agitate yourself. ” 

Joan took no heed of this advice. She was rest- 
less for her mother to go, and Mrs. Clyde went. 
Then Miriam took Joan’s hand in hers. 


282 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ I will stay by you, dear; but I would not talk 
much, I think,” said Miriam gently. 

“I have no time to waste,” answered Joan. 
“ Miriam, I am dying; and before I die, I wish my 
husband to know the truth.” 

“O Joan!” 

“ He knows it already, I am certain, though how 
he learnt it I cannot tell; but I have seen it 
written on his face.” 

Miriam was silent. She knew only too well 
that it was Joan’s own lips that had revealed her 
secret in her delirious ravings. 

“ I cannot die in peace until I have told him,” 
went on Joan. “ I want him to forgive me — to 
say he forgives me — and Robert.” 

“But, dear Joan, think of the consequences of 
this; think of ” 

“You mean Ferrars, Robert’s murderer? Do 
you know where he is now?” 

“No, I do not.” 

“ I do not care what happens to him,” continued 
Joan excitedly. “But I will not think of him. 
What I think of — what I have thought of day and 
night as I lay here — is to atone, as far as I can : is 
to confess everything. I used to hope m}^ husband 
would never know; but now I feel that he does 
know. I would not say anything till you came, 
Miriam. You screened me then, and I am thankful 
at least that no injury has come to you from this.” 

Miriam suppressed a restless sigh. 

“Sir James is with you, of course?” asked Joan 
presently, after a few moments’ silence. 


SUMMONED. 


283 


'‘No, he could not come.” 

“Not come? Miriam, surely you are happy 
with him? Surely you have not allowed anything 
to come between you and his love?” 

“Dear Joan, it is all right,” said Miriam 
soothingly. 

“ I would tell him the truth. After I am gone, 
tell him the truth ; for there is no blame due to 
you.” 

“ Dear Joan, do not talk of these things.” 

“ But I must ; and I want yoii to go now to my 
husband, and prepare him for my last words. 
Tell him we all deceived him, and that I betrayed 
him.” 

“ O Joan, how can I do this? I did not mean to 
tell you; but since your illness. General Conray 
came to me in Scotland — came to see me to try to 
learn the truth. In your fever, you had talked of 
Robert Conray, and you had led him to suspect — 
and — and I denied everything. I cannot go to 
him now.” 

“Then it was my own lips betrayed me!” said 
Joan, with strange solemnity. “God made me 
speak the truth, though we tried so hard to hide 
it.” 

“ Dear Joan, I should let it rest now; it can do 
no good to tell it; it will only distress General 
Conray more. ” 

“ Miriam, I cannot die with a lie upon my soul. 
When he dies he will know it, and I should rather 
he knew it now when I have strength to ask his 
pardon.” 


284 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


Miriam’s tears fell fast. What could she say? 

“ Will you go and bring him, dear?” continued 
Joan. “Tell him I have a confession to make to 
him ; that it will make me happier — make it easier 
for me to die. ” 

“O Joan, Joan, you break my heart!” wept 
Miriam. 

“ I wish to see him,” said Joan, so wistfully that 
Miriam could no longer refuse her request. 

“I will go,” she said, and she left the room to 
seek General Conray. 

She found him walking restlessly up and down 
one of the corridors of the house. 

He looked up with a startled expression as she 
came toward him, as if he feared she might be 
the bearer of ill-news. 

“Joan wishes to see you,” said Miriam tremu- 
lously; “she — she wishes to tell you something 
— something that is preying on her mind. ” 

“Not, not — about Robert Conray?” asked the 
gray-haired General, in violent agitation. 

Miriam cast down her eyes. 

“Then you lied tome in Scotland?” went on 
the General, his pallid face flushing strangely. 
“And now on her death-bed I am to hear the 
truth.” 

“ It — it is very sad,” said Miriam, and her eyes 
were full of tears. 

“ Sad?” echoed General Conray, “ it is death to 
me! Would that I had died before her — died be- 
fore the black shadow of doubt stole into my heart. ” 

“ But — but — she has suffered so much!” pleaded 


SUMMONED. 


28s 

Miriam, “ and she was but a girl, a young girl. 
O General Conray, speak kindly to her — let her 
die in peace.” 

The old man made no answer ; he covered his face 
with his hand ; he turned away his head, and for a 
moment or two Miriam dare not disturb his grief. 

“ She is so anxious to see you,” presently said 
Miriam. 

“ Let me have a little time — Miriam. After I 
saw you in Scotland I went to Newbrough-on-the- 
Sea, and was recalled from there by the news of 
Joan’s relapse. But when there I learnt that a 
soldier had been stationed there — a soldier who 
bore the name of Dare — ^who had gone on furlough 
a day before my arrival. From the description of 
this man I believe him to be Ferrars, the murderer 
of Robert Conray?” 

“I cannot tell,” said Miriam, as steadily as she 
could. 

“Joan in her ravings said you knew; I believe 
you do know, though you will not tell the truth. 
Do you know where he is now?” 

“No, I do not.” 

At this moment Mrs. Clyde, who had heard 
voices on the corridor, as her bed-room was situ- 
ated there, came out of her room and joined the 
General and Miriam. 

“ Have you left her, Miriam? Is any one with 
her? asked Mrs. Clyde. 

“ I came to ask the General to go to her,” an- 
swered Miriam. “ She wishes to see him.” 

“I will go,” said General Conray briefly, and 


286 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


he was moving away in the direction of Joan’s 
room, when Miriam ran after him and laid her 
hand upon his arm. 

“Oh! be kind to her,” she whispered; “don’t 
let her drift away from you in anger.” 

The General did not speak; a look of intense 
pain passed over his worn features; that was all. 
Then he moved on, and Miriam turned again to 
face her mother. 

“You have come to a sad house, Miriam,” said 
Mrs. Clyde. “ I have not yet even had strength of 
mind to go down to speak to Sir James; but I 
suppose your father is with him?” 

“He is not here, mother,” answered Miriam, 
and her eyes fell. 

“ Not here !” repeated Mrs. Clyde, in the greatest 
surprise. “ Do you mean to tell me he allowed 
you to come all the way from Scotland alone?” 

“No, the butler and Ford came with me,” said 
Miriam, for she felt her mother’s keen eyes were 
fixed on her face. “ James could not come — some- 
thing prevented him.” 

Mrs. Clyde said nothing further, but she looked 
and felt uneasy. Then she began talking about 
Joan, and told Miriam that the change for the 
worse had come very unexpectedly. 

“And — and is there no hope?” asked Miriam, 
with faltering tongue. 

“ I fear none,” answered Mrs. Clyde sorrowfully. 
“ It is a sad, sad thing, to be cut off so young and 
so beautiful as she was. I fear it will just break 
the General’s heart.” 


SUMMONED. 


287 


She did not know that the General’s heart was 
already broken. He was sitting at this moment 
by Joan’s bedside, and her thin hand lay in his. 
He had said no word of reproach ; he asked no 
questions ; and his eyes were fixed on the face of 
his dying wife. 

“ Did — did Miriam tell you what I wish you 
now to know?” presently asked Joan, looking up. 

“She told me that you wished to see me,” an- 
swered the General, in a low faltering voice. 

“ I wish you to know the truth about — Robert 
Conray before I die,” said Joan with a great effort. 
“ I wish you to know all my sin and my shame, 
and the secret of his death.” 

The General started and bit his pallid lips. 

“ It was I, not Miriam, who was with him on 
the night of his murder,” continued Joan, forcing 
the dreadful words from her quivering lips. “ He 
— he was my lover. We used to meet in secret, 
and that night we had met.” 

The General turned away his head. He had 
half-believed all this before, but to hear it was 
terrible — to hear it from Joan’s own lips. 

“We were together, and Ferrars, Miriam’s 
lover, who had come in secret to Tyeford, as you 
objected to his visits on account of Miriam, came 
into the grounds to meet Miriam when we were 
there. He mistook me for Miriam, and in a 
jealous rage he — he shot poor Robert. He died 
in my arms.” 

She said no more, nor did the General speak. 
He sat there with his bowed head and his ashen 


288 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


face, and Joan lay back breathless and exhausted. 
Presently, however, she revived a little and fixed 
her sunken eyes on the General’s face. 

“Can you forgive me, my husband?” she said, 
in a hollow voice. “ Forgive me before I die!” 

The General fell down on his knees by the bed- 
side. 

“If — if my forgiveness can comfort you, Joan,” 
he faltered, “ I forgive you from my heart.” 

“God will forgive me if you do!” gasped Joan, 
and a great change came over her face. “ Kiss 
me, my husband.” 

He bent his head and kissed her, and he saw as 
he did so that her last moments were come. He 
hastily rang the bell for the others, and lifted her 
head upon his arm. A smile stole over her face, 
and her dying eyes were fixed on his. Then her 
lips moved, and he bent nearer to catch the words. 

“Forgive — Robert,” she whispered hoarsely, 
and a groan broke from the General’s lips as he 
listened. Robert was her last thought, for when 
he laid her head once more on the pillow, Joan 
was dead. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A woman’s hair. 

Sir James returned to the house after Miriam 
had left Kintore, with a heavy heart and a moody 
brow. He had seen her bend forward as if to 
catch a parting glimpse of him, as the carriage 
drove away, and this act, which a day ago would 
have given him a thrill of pleasure, seemed now 
only to add to his restless pain. 

He seemed, indeed, to have lost all interest in 
everything. His head groom presently came to 
the house to tell him about the injured horse at 
Strathloe. Sir J ames listened listlessly. The man 
wanted the horse brought back to Kintore. “ He 
isn’t happy there. Sir James,” said the groom; 
“he’s not used to that kind of stables, ye know.” 

To divert his thoughts. Sir James then said he 
would walk over to Strathloe, and see what he 
thought. He did this, and his horse whinnied 
when he entered the Inn stables. Sir James, who 
was fond of animals and very kind to them, went 
up and patted his glossy coat, examined his knees, 
and finally agreed with the groom that he would 
be better at home. This being settled. Sir James 
walked back to Kintore. He was in that restless, 
miserable state of mind when one moves from 
19 289 


290 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


place to place and finds no relief anywhere. And 
so the day wore on; but about three o’clock a 
servant came to tell him that the landlord of the 
little Inn, at Strathloe, wished to see him very 
particularly. 

“What does he want?” asked Sir James, some- 
what impatiently. 

Stubbs, his servant, could not tell him, and it 
ended by Sir James going into the hall to speak to 
the landlord, who was named Muir. 

“Well, Mr. Muir,” he said; “anything the mat- 
ter?” 

The landlord wiped his brow with his red cotton 
handkerchief, though the day was cold, before he 
answered. 

“ I’m very sorry to say there is, Sir James,” he 
said. 

“What is it then?” 

“That poor gentleman, Mr. Dare, that ye cam’ 
to spier for, sir, is lying dead in the Glen, Sir 
James ” 

“ Bead? ” interrupted Sir James. 

“ Nothing less, sir. My twa bit laddies went 
into the Glen, maybe an hour since, and they cam’ 
running home wi’ the news. Then I went mysel’, 
and there he’s lying wi’ a pistol by his side. I’m 
feared. Sir James, that he sent his ain soul adrift.” 

“You think he shot himself?” said Sir James, 
in a low tone of horror. 

“ I fear sae, sir. The wife said he seemed sair 
down-hearted when he paid his reckoning, and my 
opinion is he just went straight to the Glen, and 


A woman’s hair. 


291 


put the pistol to his ain head. However, there he 
is, and I cam’ over to tell you. I thought maybe 
ye wad like to see him before he’s lifted.” 

Sir James felt unutterably shocked. There is 
something in death so solemn that all our passions 
seem to dwindle in its presence. Sir James stood 
silent for a moment or two, and the landlord once 
more wiped his damp brow. 

“Ye ken’t the chiel when alive, did [ye not. Sir 
James?” he presently asked. 

“I think I have seen him, said Sir James 
slowly. 

“They say a lass brought him a letter; sae 
ther-elll hae been some petticoat at the bottom 
on’t, I misdoubt. And he’s weel favored; a fine 
handsome lad, eh; it’s a sair end, but there’ll hae 
to be an inquiry, and the ’Fiscal must hae notice 
to-day.” 

“ Yes, of course.” 

“Wad ye like to come and hae a look at him. 
Sir ‘James? I’ve left him in charge of the police. 
Perhaps ye will be able to identify him, and that, 
aye something. ” 

“ I will go back to Strathloe with you,” said Sir 
James. That there had been some secret about 
the dead man he now felt convinced — some secret 
Miriam knew; and his face flushed darkly as he 
thought of his wife. So he walked almost in 
silence by the side of the landlord to Strathloe. 

There was great excitement in the village as 
they entered it, and various people were hurry- 
ing toward the Glen. Sir James unconsciously 


292 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


hastened his footsteps, and the landlord nearly ran 
forward. They soon reached the momentarily 
increasing group standing round the body of the 
dead man. Some of those present fell back a little 
at the sight of Sir James, who was the owner of 
the soil, and touched their caps to their landlord. 
There were two policemen keeping guard. 

He walked on a few steps further, then came in 
sight of the body of the soldier Dare. He knew 
the man again instantly. He was lying on his back, 
with his half-open eyes gazing upward at the 
misty sky. There was a bullet-wound in his left 
temple, and a small revolver at his side. Sir 
James stood looking down at him in silence, but 
a great throb of bitter emotion was in his heart. 

“ No wonder she loved him!” he was thinking, 
with his eyes fixed on the pale, singularly hand- 
some features of the dead soldier. It was a 
mournful sight. A man in the very prime of his 
young manhood had died, seemingly by his own 
hand. There were no marks of a life struggle on 
the rough grass around ; none in the whole attitude 
and expression of Dare. 

At this moment the village doctor arrived on 
the scene, and, kneeling down, opened the waist- 
coat of the recumbent figure, and placed his head 
on the breast to see if the heart was actually still. 
Then he looked round, glanced at Sir James, and 
shook his head. 

“Is he quite dead?” asked Sir James in an un- 
steady voice. 

“Quite; for many hours,” answered the doc- 


A woman’s hair. 


293 

tor. “ He* has probably lain here through the 
night.” 

Again he pushed the waistcoat aside, and opened 
the white woollen vest. As he did this, Sir James 
saw a gold locket was suspended round the soldier’s 
neck. The doctor saw this also, raised the locket' 
and touched the spring. It opened, and a little 
curl of hair, the color of which Sir James knew 
only too well, fell from it. The doctor lifted up 
the curl, and was placing it again in the locket, 
when he saw a few written words were also in- 
closed in the gold case. 

“ To be buried with me^" he read aloud the next 
moment. “ Ah ! poor fellow, ” he continued. “ So 
this has been the end of some unfortunate love 
affair. Well, we must respect his last wishes,” 
and he refastened the locket as he spoke, and once 
more laid it on the dead man’s breast. 

Sir James turned away with bitten lips and a 
knitted brow as he noted this action. The doctor 
then rose and joined him. 

“ Some one was saying in the village. Sir James, 
that you knew this poor fellow. Is it true?” 

“ I think I have seen him,” answered Sir James 
with so visible an effort that the doctor saw this 
inquiry was ill-timed. But at the official inquiry 
as to the cause of the man’s death in the Glen 
of Strathloe, which was held on the following day 
at the village by the procurator-fiscal. Sir James 
was again called upon to answer this question. 

A policeman came over to Kintore to summon 
Sir James to appear at this inquiry, and this cir- 


294 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


cumstance excited much curiosity and excitement 
in the Dowager Lady MacKennon’s mind. 

“ They say a gentleman has been found dead in 
the Glen of Strathloe, James,” she said. 

“Yes,” answered Sir James gloomily. 

“Who is it?” asked his mother sharply. 

“A mystery, apparently,” said Sir James, turn- 
ing away, and he spoke to his mother no more on 
the subject. 

But at the inquiry before the procurator-fiscal 
he was forced to speak of it. He was asked if he 
had known, or could identify, the dead man, and 
he spoke the truth. 

“ I saw him and spoke to him once, I am almost 
sure,” he replied to these questions. “It was at 
Newbrough-on-the-Sea, a place near where my 
regiment is stationed. He was then wearing the 
uniform of the Infantry regim.ent, in which, at that 
time, he was in the position of a private soldier; 
and his name was Dare.” 

“And you know nothing further of him. Sir 
James? — nothing of his family history?” 

“ Nothing, except that he distinguished himself 
on the occasion of a shipwreck by great bravery. 
I spoke to him in the hospital where he was re- 
ceiving treatment after an accident. I was with 
the captain of his company at the time.” 

“Then I think it will be wise to adjourn this 
inquiry until we communicate with either the 
Colonel of this regiment. Sir James, or the Captain 
you mention. You have no doubt as to his identity 
with this soldier?” said the procurator-fiscal. 


A woman’s hair. 


295 


“As far as my recollection carries me, it is the 
same man; but I cannot, of course, be perfectly 
certain. At all events, his name was Dare.” 

“Then, Sir James, will you kindly give me the 
address of the Colonel whose regiment you believe 
this man to have been in, and the number of his 
regiment as well? And perhaps his Captain’s 
name also would be advisable?” 

Sir James complied with this request, and then 
returned to Kintore with a gloomy brow. He 
found there a telegram awaiting him from Tyeford 
Hall — from Miriam. It was very brief: Joan 
is dead. ” He sat down with it in his hand and con- 
sidered what he ought to do. His heart still felt 
dead within him — still crushed to earth by the 
knowledge that his wife had never loved him, that 
she had loved another man, who probably had shot 
himself for her sake. Yet how could he inflict a 
fresh blow upon her by telling her this, now when 
her sorrow would, he felt, be so bitter and intense. 
He knew the two sisters had loved each other 
deeply, and if his mother’s words were to be be- 
lieved they had together shared some dark tragedy 
in their early youth. He would spare Miriam if 
he could, he thought, with the generosity and 
kindness of his heart. Yet, he reflected, she 
would probably see the inquiry regarding Dare’s 
death in the public papers. Her father would 
certainly hear of it, as no doubt Captain Escourt 
would at once communicate it to Colonel Clyde. 
Dr. Reed, also, was sure to speak of the man who 
had been his patient so long. She was certain to 


296 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


learn it then — certain to hear that the man she 
had planned to meet in secret had shot himself in 
less than an hour after their parting. 

He could not, in fact, make up his mind how to 
act, and passed a miserable evening of doubt and 
uncertainty. It was the day on which the Rev. 
David Young never failed to make his appearance 
at the dinner hour of Kintore, and as Sir James 
sat at the foot of the table, gloomy and silent, the 
minister, during the meal, proceeded to detail all 
the minutest particulars of the tragedy at Strath- 
loe. 

“ They say. Lady MacKennon, that the poor 
fellow had a locket on his breast, wi’ some 
woman’s hair in it,” he said, as he spooned his 
soup into his capacious mouth. 

“ I fear he has been the victim of some sinful 
passion,” replied Lady MacKennon, with a glance 
at her son’s overcast face. 

“ That’s verra likely; and in the locket there 
was a request that the locket and the woman’s 
hair were to be laid in the grave wi’ him,” an- 
swered the minister. 

“What color was the hair? Did you see it?” 
asked the dowager with grim curiosity. 

“ The police ha’ charge o’ the body, and no one 
is allowed to see it pending the inquiry,” said the 
Rev. David. “But I’m told it’s a fact, and the 
doctor told me also that you were present, Sir 
James, when he found and opened the locket.” 

“Good heavens! do talk of something else!” 
cried Sir James, with passion and anger he could 


A WOMAN S HAIR. 


297 


not control. “ All the day I have spent over this 
miserable subject; surely you can let it rest now!” 

The Rev. David looked at Sir James in genuine 
astonishment. His spoon containing soup re- 
mained quite two moments suspended in the air 
after this sudden outbreak before he could collect 
his faculties. 

“The minister meant no harm, James,” said 
Lady MacKennon gravely. But she herself the 
next minute changed the conversation; she was 
beginning to have a grim suspicion in her mind 
that the dead man found in the Glen of Strathloe 
was the lover of her son’s wife. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


THE TRUTH. 

The next morning’s post brought a letter for 
Sir James which decided his course of action. It 
was from Miriam, and contained a touching appeal 
to him not to add to their present misery at Tye- 
ford by appearing on bad terms with her. In 
irregular handwriting, evidently penned by a 
shaking hand, he read : 

“ Dear James : — We are all in the deepest distress 
here. I telegraphed to tell you that dear Joan had 
left us, but her death was so sudden that the blow was 
terrible. I had been with her a short time before, 
and she expressed a wish to see her husband. He 
went to her, and only a few minutes later, it seemed 
to us, her bell rang violently. Mother and I both 
hurried to her room, and found dear Joan had passed 
away, and the General in a state of mind I cannot 
describe. He seemed turned to stone, and has scarcely 
spoken since. My father and mother are also in the 
greatest grief, and this last blow has nearly broken 
my heart. Under these sad circumstances, will you 
grant me one last favor, which is, not to add to the 
trouble here by allowing others to know, at present, of 
our unhappy quarrel? You had a right to feel angry, 
but I was not as guilty as you think. Joan has to be 
buried the day after to-morrow, and my father has 
298 


THE TRUTH. 


299 


asked me to write to you to ask you to come to the 
funeral. If you do not, they will know there is some 
strange reason for your conduct, and this will natur- 
ally increase their misery. Do, therefore, not refuse 
my request. 

“Joan looks very beautiful, lying in her last calm 
sleep, with a strange smile on her lips. You cannot 
believe she is gone until you touch her icy brow. 

I cannot write any more, but remain, sincerely yours, 

“ Miriam.” 

Sir James read this letter twice, and then made 
up his mind. His mother was watching him from 
the other end of the breakfast-table as he did so, 
her eyes followed him as he rose, and, without 
speaking, left the room. 

He went to send a telegram to Miriam by the 
rural postman, who usually waited a while after 
he had brought the letters to Kintore. He wrote 
this out, and then himself entrusted it to the post- 
man’s hands, accompanied by a liberal reward. 

“ I will start to-day, and will be with you early 
to-morrow,” he had written ; and after he had dis- 
patched his message he returned to the breakfast 
room. 

“ Mrs. Conray has to be buried to-morrow, 
mother,” he said briefly, “and I will leave here 
for Tyeford to-day so as to be present at the 
funeral. ” 

“You surely are not going, James?” said Lady 
MacKennon, with sudden agitation and quivering 
lips. 

“Yes, mother, I am.” 


300 THE LAST SIGNAL. 

“James, do not go,” and Lady MacKennon rose 
as she spoke. “That woman does not deserve 
any consideration from your hands. She has made 
you miserable enough ; let her pass out of your 
life.” 

Sir James gave a short and bitter laugh. 

“It is easy talking, ” he said. “Whatever she 
is, she will never pass out of my life. I have 
made up my mind. I have something to say to 
her, and I do not choose during their present grief 
to add to the misery of her family by letting them 
know of our estrangement; but you need not be 
afraid if you mean that, for it is final.” 

Lady MacKennon gave a sort of gasp, then re- 
sumed her seat. 

“James,” she asked, in a broken voice, “answer 
me one question ; answer your mother. Was that 
unhappy man who sent his soul adrift into dark- 
ness at Strathloe her lover?” 

“I cannot tell you,” answered Sir James 
gloomily, and he turned and left the room. Lady 
MacKennon did not see him again until he came 
to bid her good-by before he started his journey 
to Tyeford. 

She kissed him with icy lips and a heavy heart. 

“I will pray for you,” she said; but her son 
made no reply. He left Kintore immediately 
afterward, his heart as heavy as lead as he 
journeyed on his way. 

He reached Tyeford on the following morning 
—the day of Joan’s funeral — and was received by 
Colonel Clyde, who looked sad, aged, and worn. 


THE TRUTH. 30f 

He pressed Sir James’s hand, and said a few 
feeling words regarding their great loss. 

“ Miriam seems quite broken down,” he added; 
“but I trust having you with her again will help 
to rouse her. ” 

What could Sir James say? He murmured 
some words and turned away his head. Had Mrs. 
Clyde been present instead of her husband, her 
acute eyes would instantly have perceived that 
something was wrong. But the Colonel never 
noticed this — never even noticed that his son-in- 
law seemed in no haste to go upstairs to see his 
wife. But presently Sir James proposed to do 
this, and with slow and heavy footsteps proceeded 
to the room where Miriam, with a sinking heart, 
awaited him. When he entered the room, and saw 
her pale, sorrow-stricken face, he asked himself 
how it was possible that he could add to her grief 
by telling her of the miserable tragedy at Strath- 
loe. 

“Thank you for coming,” she said, holding out 
her hand. 

Sir James just touched it, and that was all. 
Her wrong was rankling in his breast as bitterly 
as ever, but still he pitied her. She looked so 
white, so worn, in her trailing black gown, and 
her eyes were heavy with weeping. 

“It — was so sudden,” she half-whispered a mo- 
ment later. 

“Yes, it was very sad for you all,” answered 
Sir James, in a constrained voice. 

“Poor Joan, poor Joan!” went on Miriam, the 


302 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


tears rushing into her eyes afresh, and streaming 
down her cheeks. Altogether, it was a most pain- 
ful interview for both husband and wife. Could he 
have taken her in his arms and let her weep there 
it would all have been so different. But this could 
not be; vSir James was thinking Df the dead man 
lying at Strathloe, and Miriam that her husband’s 
affections had completely passed away from her. 
She was too proud to attempt to break through 
the barrier that he had raised between them. 
She made, indeed, no effort to do so. They both 
stood almost silent, when suddenly those muffled 
sounds, those whisperings, those strange and heavy 
footfalls which chill our hearts more bitterly even 
than death itself, were heard outside. They were 
about to bear away the dead. When Miriam 
realized this she gave a despairing cry, and fell 
down sobbing by the bed, covering her ears with 
her hands to shut out the dreadful noise. 

All this was terrible to Sir James. To see the 
woman he had so passionately loved — whom he in 
his utmost heart loved still — lying before him, 
crushed down by her natural and overpowering 
grief, and to be unable to breathe one word of com- 
fort or help, was absolute torture to his warm and 
generous heart. He looked at the prostrate figure 
of his unhappy young wife, then turned his head 
away with an absolute groan. He went to the 
window and stood staring blankly at the drawn 
blind. Miriam kept sobbing on, and at last he 
once more approached her. 

“ Try to compose yourself, ” he said hoarsely, and 


THE TRUTH. 


303 


as he spoke she turned round and caught him by 
the hand. 

“O James, I am so miserable! — so utterly mis- 
erable!” she cried, raising her tear-stained face, 
and looking with her dark eyes up to his. But he 
made no response. He thought she was miserable- 
because she was parted alike from her sister and 
the man whom she loved! But Miriam was not 
in truth thinking of Hugh Ferrars. It was her 
husband’s hardness and seeming indifference that 
cut so deeply into her heart. He dropped her 
hand from his nerveless grasp; once more he 
turned away ; but as he did so Mrs. Clyde rapped 
at the room door and entered it to summon him to 
follow Joan Conray to the grave. 

She, too, was crying bitterly, and Sir James, 
after saying a few brief words of condolence, 
hurried from the presence of the two weeping 
women. Downstairs everything was equally sad. 
The gray-haired General, with his bent head and 
stony face, and Colonel Clyde and Sir James were 
the only mourners. This was by the especial de- 
sire of General Conray. Thus unostentatiously 
Joan was borne away from her husband’s house, 
leaving behind her a broken-hearted man. 

To the extreme surprise of both Colonel and 
Mrs. Clyde, after the funeral was over Sir James 
announced his intention of immediately proceed- 
ing to town. He was obliged to go, he said. 

“ But how can you leave Miriam in such dis- 
tress?” asked Mrs. Clyde. 


304 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“I have no choice; I must go,” answered Sir 
James, with a certain reserve in his tone that Mrs. 
Clyde by no means approved of. He had, in fact, 
made up his mind that it was impossible for him 
to stay. He could not now, after he had seen 
Miriam’s bitter grief for her sister, inflict any 
fresh pang on her heart. He would leave the 
knowledge of Dare’s suicide to reach her ears by 
chance. She might perhaps never hear it; at all 
events, he could not tell her; and so, two hours 
after his arrival at Tyeford, he went away. 

He saw Miriam for a few moments to say good- 
by before he did so, and found her completely 
broken down by her heavy sorrow. 

“ I will write,” he said briefly, in great agitation. 
After he was gone, with a moan Miriam turned her 
head upon her pillow, feeling that all his love for 
her was indeed gone for ever. 

“And for poor Hugh’s sake I must still keep 
silence!” she thought. “Joan is at rest; but he 
is living still.” 

The next few days were most miserable ones 
alike for Miriam and Sir James. Mrs. Clyde could 
not conceal her anxiety entirely from her daughter j 
to learn the cause of Sir James’s sudden departure 
from Tyeford, and this added to Miriam’s pain on 
the subject. Meanwhile, Sir James heard from 
Scotland that the deceased soldier. Dare, had been 
identifled by the Captain of his company — Captain 
Escourt. The adjourned inquiry before the 
procurator-fiscal had been held, and the details . 
were in the public papers. Would Miriam see 


THE TRUTH. 


305 


them? Would her father tell her of Dare’s death, 
of which he was sure to be now aware. The third 
day after he had left Tyeford, these questions 
were 'answered, for he received an imperative sum- 
mons from Mrs. Clyde to come to Miriam’s sick- 
bed. 

“Come at once,” the telegram ran; “Miriam is 
seriously ill. Do not delay. ” 

This left Sir James no choice. He must either 
go to his wife, or announce to her parents that he 
had parted from her. He meant to exchange into 
a regiment on service in India, and leave Miriam 
behind him, and thus, with as little pain and 
scandal as possible to Colonel and Mrs. Clyde, he 
intended to separate from his wife. He under- 
stood the cause of her illness only too well, he now 
told himself. She had seen the account of Dare’s 
death in the papers, and the blow had been too 
heavy for her to bear. But still he went to her. 
There were many arrangements to make with her 
before he could start for India — regarding her fu- 
ture life and maintenance — and it was better that 
these should be done personally. Perhaps, too, he 
wished to see her — wished to learn the truth of 
the early story that had ended so tragically in the 
Glen of Strathloe. At all events, he started for 
Tyeford half an hour after he had received Mrs. 
Clyde’s telegram, and arrived there during the 
evening. Mrs. Clyde met him as he entered the 
hall, and the expression on her face was very 
grave. 

“ I telegraphed for you by Miriam’s express de- 
20 


3o6 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


sire,” she said. “She has been very ill, and is 
most anxious to see you the moment you arrive.” 

“ I will see her,” answered Sir James, with agi- 
tation, and he at once followed Mrs. Clyde to his 
wife’s room. Miriam was in bed, propped up 
with pillows, as he entered the room, and she put 
out a wan trembling hand to greet him. 

“You have been ill?” faltered Sir James, who 
was shocked at the change in Miriam’s face. 

“Yes,” she answered faintly. “Mother, will 
you leave us?” she went on. “ I wish to see him 
alone.” 

As Mrs. Clyde quitted the room, Miriam once 
more put out her trembling hand. 

“James,” she said, “is it true — true what I read 
in the papers here,” and she drew a newspaper 
from beneath her pillows as she spoke; “that 
Hugh Ferrars — Hugh Ferrars, whom you knew 
as Dare — was found dead in the Glen of Strathloe 
after I left Scotland?” 

“Yes,” answered Sir James hoarsely, “it is 
true.” 

“And you knew this when you came to Joan’s 
funeral? He was dead then?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then now you shall know the truth, ” continued 
Miriam excitedly, raising herself up in bed, and 
fixing her sunken eyes on her husband’s face, “the 
truth of the dark and bitter secret of my life.” 

Sir James did not speak. 

“ There is no need for silence now, at least to 
you,” said Miriam, with increasing excitement. 


THE TRUTH. 


307 


“ They both are dead — Joan and Hugh Ferrars. 
The truth cannot hurt them now.” 

“ But what was this man to your sister?” asked 
Sir James sternly, for he thought Miriam was try- 
ing to deceive him. “After what I saw with my 
own eyes ” 

“Hugh Ferrars was nothing to Joan,” inter- 
rupted Miriam eagerly; ''nothing. He was my 
lover, as you know — the lover of my young girl- 
hood, from whom I was parted by a terrible 
act.” 

“ What was it?” 

“ I will tell you. I must go back to the time 
when I was a young girl — a girl of seventeen, just 
from school — when I went to pay my first visit to 
Joan after her marriage to General Conray. She 
was two years older, and we were extremely alike 
in our appearance, as you know. ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I arrived here, full of delight to be with her, 
and I found Joan looking happy and excited. I 
wondered how she could seem so happy with her old 
husband; but, girl as, I was, I soon saw the cause. 
Robert Conray, the General’s nephew, and who was 
on his staff, was constantly at the house ; and — and 
it is a sad story — but Joan loved him, and he loved 
Joan, with such passionate affection that it blinded 
them to all else besides. They used to meet in 
secret, meet in the grounds; and gradually I 
learned this — learned to screen Joan, as I think 
the General rather wished that Robert should ask 
me to be his wife. ” 


3o8 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


“ But what has this to do with the man Dare, or 
Hugh Ferrars, or whatever his name is?” 

“You shall hear. Hugh Ferrars was in the 
same regiment with Robert Conray, but he was a 
poor man, the son of a clergyman, and the General 
did not like his attentions to me. He interfered 
too late; already I was engaged to Hugh Ferrars 
when the General forbade him to be received at 
the house. Then we, too, used to meet in secret 
— I will tell the truth. We planned to elope to- 
gether, and to aid this, and lull all the General’s 
suspicions, Hugh Ferrars asked for and obtained 
leave. We agreed that he had to return to Tye- 
ford in secret on a certain night, and that I was to 
fly with him. James, that dreadful night will 
haunt me till I die!” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ I dare not tell Joan that I meant to run away 
with Hugh Ferrars, and he and I arranged by 
let'ter to meet in the grounds here at night, and 
go together to London and be married there. I 
went out that night afraid and trembling, as you 
may think, at the appointed hour, and just as I 
entered the grounds I thought I heard a shot. I 
was frightened, but still I went on to the spot be- 
neath the trees where Hugh and I had met before. 
It was a windy, moonlight night, and sometimes 
the moon was overcast. But it was shining as I 
entered the grove where I expected to find Hugh 
waiting for me. O my God! that awful scene 
rises before me now. I heard groans, and, as I 
approached, the moon shone out and showed 


THE TRUTH. 


309 


me everything distinctly. I saw Hugh Ferrars 
standing with an awful look on his face : I saw Joan 
kneeling on the ground, Robert Conray lying on 
it, with his head pillowed on her breast! Hugh 
Ferrars had shot him; he had mistaken Joan for 
me; had seen the girl he loved, the girl who was 
about to fly with him, in the arms of another man, 
and in a moment of madness, of jealous rage, he 
had shot his friend!” 

“It is a terrible story!” said Sir James, with a 
darkening brow. 

“ There had been some murder in the train at 
that time, and so Hugh Ferrars had carried a small 
loaded revolver with him when he came to Tye- 
ford, or this terrible mistake would not have hap- 
pened. As it was, Robert Conray died on Joan’s 
breast. His life-blood stained her white gown, 
and there was nothing left to Hugh Ferrars but to 
disappear. Had he been arrested for Robert Con- 
ray’s murder, Joan’s reputation would have been 
lost, for one of the orderlies stated at the inquest 
that he had seen a lady whom he thought was the 
General’s wife with Captain Conray in the grounds 
on the night of the murder. Then I came for- 
ward; I said / had been, with Robert Conray in 
the grounds, but that I had left him well and un- 
injured. I stated also that I was engaged to him. 
I did it to save Joan, and I persuaded Hugh 
Ferrars to go quietly away. Yet, somehow, sus- 
picion fell on him. He had disappeared from his 
rooms in town on the very day of the murder, and 
finally a warrant was issued for his arrest. But 


310 • 


THE LAST SIGNAL. 


he was never found. Two years passed away — 
and I saw him again. Saw him lying wounded 
on the shore at Newbrough-on-the-Sea, and — and 
I knew him once more. James, the soldier, Dare, 
was no other than Hugh Ferrars, and when you 
saw us meet by the loch near Strathloe, I had sent 
for him to warn him. Poor Joan in her fever had 
babbled out the dreadful secret, and General Con- 
ray came to Kintore to induce me to confirm it. 
I denied everything, and I sent for Hugh Ferrars 
to give him money to leave England forever — to 
fly, in fact, for his life. He refused the money, 
and perhaps you can better understand now what 
you saw. I was parting with my old lover for- 
ever — parting- with a hunted, miserable man.” 

Sobs here checked Miriam’s further utterance, 
and she fell back exhausted on the pillow; and for 
a moment or two Sir James spoke no word. Then 
he bent forward and took one of her cold, trem- 
bling hands. 

“ My poor girl!” he said; “you have suffered 
terribly for others!” 

“ I — I loved Joan so much,” wept Miriam ; “ and 
I was so sorry for poor Hugh ” 

“But you loved him?” asked Sir James in a 
low, broken voice. 

“I did when I was a girl; but, James, I never 
wronged you — never even in thought.” 

There was silence in the room after this — 
a silence broken only by Miriam’s muffled sobs. 
Suddenly Sir James fell down on his knees by the 


THE TRUTH. 3II 

bedside and bowed his head over Miriam’s hand, 
which he still held. 

“It broke my heart, Miriam,” he murmured; 
“ it broke my heart !” 

She did not speak, but she faintly pressed the 
hand in hers. And after a while — after a brief 
struggle in his mind — Sir James raised his head 
and looked in her face. 

“You have told me the truth,” he said, “and 
I want you to answer me truthfully one question 
more. I had made up my mind toleave England, 
to exchange into a regiment in India ; and before 
I go I wished to see you to make arrangements 
for your maintenance ” 

“Toleave England!” interrupted Miriam in a 
startled voice. 

“Yes; but now that I have heard your story, 
will you tell me what you really feel? Will the 
memory of this dead soldier always come between 
your heart and mine?” 

He asked this question gravely, solemnly, with 
his eyes fixed on her face. Miriam’s answer was 
not given in words. She bent forward and kissed 
him, and Sir James asked no more. But an hour 
afterward, when Mrs Clyde entered the room, she 
found the husband seated by the wife’s bedside 
with her hands fast clasped in his. 


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